Hawklady

A Spellmonger Cadet Novel

By Terry Mancour

All Rights Reserved.  Copyright © May 9th, 2016

For Zoe Hamilton,

Because Every Teenage Girl

Needs A Best Friend Like Her.

Special thanks to Sire Aaron of Schwartz,

For keeping the peasants in line.

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Magic Lessons

Chapter Two

Duty

Chapter Three

Apprentices On The Stairs

Chapter Four

The Thoughtful Knife

Chapter Five

Armed And Armored

Chapter Six

Through The Ways

Chapter Seven

Battle At The Cotyard

Chapter Eight

A Picnic With The Spellmonger

Chapter Nine

Facing The Dragon

Chapter Ten

Dragonslayer

Chapter Eleven

The City Of Barrowbell

Chapter Twelve

Lady Amara Of Siviline House

Chapter Thirteen

Hunting With An Owl

Chapter Fourteen

The Plot In The Darkness

Chapter Fifteen

A Chase In The Dark

Chapter Sixteen

Hawklady

Chapter Seventeen

The Voyage To Sevendor

Other Books In The Spellmonger Series

Spellmonger

Warmage

Magelord

Knights Magi

High Mage

Journeymage

Enchanter

Court Wizard

Shadowmage

Cadet Series

Hawkmaiden

Hawklady

Chapter One

Magic Lessons

“You must learn to think in metaphors,” Lady Pentandra explained, as she paced gently back and forth in front of Dara.  “That’s harder than you might think, but absolutely essential for a wizard.”

They sat on the top of Magelord Minalan’s personal tower, basking in the autumn sunshine while she took her lesson. Despite the pleasant surroundings and delightful weather, the subject matter was enough to make it feel like a rainy day.  She’d only been a wizard for a few days, and apprenticed for even less, but Dara felt as if she’d received more education in that time than she’d had in her previous thirteen years.

She hadn’t meant for this to happen.  She’d just wanted a chance to show off what she’d discovered she could do, since the night of the Snow That Never Melted, and the events that came after*[1].  Ever since she’d schemed a way to use her magical connection to her falcon, Frightful, to win the Spellmonger’s Trial in front of many far more experienced contestants, her cleverness had paid off by consigning her to an arduous fate: becoming the youngest apprentice of the foremost wizard of the age.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, part of her mind lamented.  Fame, fortune, all that she’d dreamed of, should have been hers after winning a witchstone with her plan.  Instead, it had led to this kind of incessant instruction.

Nor was she reluctant to take up her new trade.  Dara wanted to learn magic, more than anything.  Even if it meant learning to read.  She was a bright girl, she knew, and everyone told her she was capable of learning. She spent several hours a day, now, with a variety of tutors.

But that much knowledge at once would make anyone weary.

Pentandra stopped, suddenly.  “You do understand what a metaphor is, don’t you?”

“When you say something is something else,” Dara replied, recalling an earlier discussion.  “Not comparing it, exactly, but saying one thing is another thing.”

“That is correct – more or less,” the wizard agreed, her lips pursing prettily.

Lady Pentandra Anna Benurvial was beautiful, Dara could plainly see.  Her brunette hair was neatly braided and pinned under a Remeran–style wimple, her dress a fascinating display of scarlet and gold, cut in an exotic fashion completely different than the sideless surcoats favored by the Riverlord women.  Her distinctive appearance lent to her reputation, Dara had learned in the few days since the Spellmonger’s Trial... and that was not without scandal.

Lady Pentandra was her new master’s best friend, it was said.  Her powers and position were second only to Master Minalan’s, himself.  And it was whispered that they had once been lovers, in their youth.

The fact that the important Remeran wizard was spending her valuable time instructing Dara on the fundamentals of her magical Talent made Dara self–conscious.  She seemed far too important for this kind of work.

“We call a direct comparison a ‘simile’,” she continued.  “Those can be useful. That was a major difference between how our ancestors learned the Art, and why the Alka Alon – the Tree Folk, who are the masters of magic – find our transposition of their songspells into spellcraft maddening.  They prefer simile.  But for Imperial–class magic, metaphor is what is most useful, for all magic is metaphor... and within each metaphor is the seed of all magic.”

“That’s the part I don’t understand,” confessed Dara, guiltily.  She’d been trying for days, now, since the excitement that had suddenly elevated her among the great and powerful in the domain.

The contest was open to all wizards and magi, anyone with magical ability – rajira, she’d learned it was called. While very, very few people had it, fewer still had the Talent in sufficient quantity to actually use magic like a true mage.

But Lenodara of Westwood did. The power she’d discovered over the summer, the ability to slip her mind behind the eyes of her falcon and see the world through the eyes of the bird as she flew, known as bilocation to the wise, was just part of her capabilities. Lady Pentandra tested her for hours to determine her degree of rajira and pronounced her Talented enough to learn the ancient, secretive art of magic.

She’d also mentioned that she thought Lenodara intelligent enough, which both pleased and irritated the thirteen–year old girl.

Lady Pentandra pronounced her fit to learn, and to avoid a scuffle with the very, very large and highly competent warmage, Jendaran the Trusty, who’d lost the contest to a wisp of a girl.  Magelord Minalan, himself, took her as apprentice, to avoid conflict. As such she was protected from the violence (particularly after Magelord Minalan, in his wisdom, granted a second, more powerful witchstone to the runner–up in the contest). But that also meant that her future was suddenly spelled out for her as evenly as lines written across the page of a book... an art she’d yet to fully master.

Her father and uncle were both proud and anxious about the appointment. By winning a witchstone – a magical piece of amber that granted a wizard tremendous power – she’d proven herself clever, quick, and foresightful, a credit to her folk in the Westwood. But the attention she’d called to herself and her kin was troubling. In these changing and turbulent times, it was dangerous for a commoner to be so close to the nobility. But it was also a splendid opportunity. The Spellmonger (as everyone called the Magelord, with pride) was an extremely important man, and being allied to him meant opportunities. Not just for herself, but her entire estate.

Since the few days after the Magical Fair broke up, Lady Pentandra instructed Lenodara (or Dara, to nearly everyone) to come to Sevendor Castle in the morning, before breakfast, and study reading in the morning before she or Master Minalan (as the Magelord insisted she call him) gave her a few hours’ worth of lessons in the afternoons.

The reading was the hard part.  Lenodara mastered the Narasi alphabet simply enough in a day, and understood the letters and the sounds they stood for.  In the last few days she’d been stringing the letters together and understanding the sounds as words, and today she’d recognized (successfully) the entire first sentence in the primer: “When humankind first came to Callidore, they found a beautiful green and blue world awaiting them.”

It was an odd sentence in many ways, and was at odds with a dozen legends she’d heard, but Master Minalan insisted it was the real history of human beings here, on the world she lived in.  That fascinated her.  And frustrated her.  She had dozens of questions about where humans came from, and how they got here on Callidore, but there was much about the world and the past even the great Spellmonger did not know.

While Lenodara found that disappointing, on the basis that adults were supposed to know everything, she tried to put that aside as she tackled the difficult lessons.  There was so much to learn, Lady Pentandra assured her, that she could spend years in study and still not master all known magic.

Dara found that a little intimidating, but Lady Pentandra was very gentle in her explanations of how magic worked... an art Dara now knew was called “thaumaturgy”, which simply meant “the study of magic”.

There were many more concepts and ideas she needed to learn beyond simple reading, she was discovering, but considering how many new words magi had for things, she could see why being able to store them up in books made sense.  And Lady Pentandra was very patient in explaining them to her.

“Metaphors are essential to magic because symbols are the key to bridging the gap between our magical minds – our rajira exta, the Archmagi called it – and the greater Magosphere.  You see, although our minds can perceive and even manipulate those energies in raw form, they are not designed to do it.”

“Why not?” Dara asked, innocently enough.

“Because we were not born here, originally, say some–”

“I was born right over there,” Dara objected, pointing at the top of Westwood Hall, in the distance.

“Not you, personally, Dara; all of humanity.  As that first sentence of the primer told you, humanity did not originate on this world, we came here.  And adapted to it.  Our original world... well, it is theorized by some scholars that it possessed little or no magic, based on the confusion with which our ancestors greeted the ability by the Alka Alon–”

“Those are the Tree Folk, right?” prompted Dara.

“Yes, and thank you for interrupting.  The magic of the Tree Folk – the Alka Alon – and the other races of the Alon we found here was strange to our ancestors.  From what we think, it was generations after our arrival that the first traces of rajira arose in us.

“But the Tree Folk – the Alka Alon – taught our ancestors how to deal with their emerging powers.  At first they tried to teach complicated Alka Alon magic to us, but few are equipped and talented enough to master even basic songspells.

“So the Alka Alon contrived the Imperial Runes,” she continued, opening a book to a page filled with broad, strongly–drawn characters.  “Each rune is a... metaphor.”

Dara frowned.  “How so?  They just look like wiggly lines.  Or straight lines.”

“So did the letters of the alphabet, when you first saw them, but each stood for a sound,” Pentandra reminded her, gently.  “The principal is the same, here, only instead of sounds, each rune is a metaphor for a particular thing.  Or group of things.  Or class of things.  But each one uniquely encapsulates the idea of a metaphor for something else.”

“I am totally lost in the woods, Lady Pentandra,” Dara admitted, uncomfortably.  “How can a wiggly line be something else?”

Pentandra paused, then picked up her walking staff from where she’d lain it and began drawing in the sand.

“You see this?” she prompted, as she sketched a rough circle in the sand, with two lines below it, parallel.  “What do you see?”

“A... tree?” Dara ventured.

“Yes, a tree,” the wizard nodded.  “You see a tree, I see a tree, Minalan sees a tree, the beggar boys on the docks of Fest would see a tree... yet there is no tree.  Indeed, it is a circle and two lines.  How is that in any way a tree?”

“It’s not,” agreed Dara.  “But it looks like a tree.”

“Are there not trees that look nothing like this?” Pentandra asked.

“I can’t think of any trees that look anything like it,” Dara agreed.  “And I’ve seen a lot of trees.”

“Yet almost every human in the world who saw this drawing would see it to mean ‘tree’,” Pentandra continued.  “The symbol has nothing to do with the thing it represents.  This one is convenient, because it’s so common, but if you saw this,” she said, drawing another circle, but one with a smaller circle inside, “would you see that as a tree?”

“No, more of a wagon wheel,” Dara said, shaking her head.

“What if you were looking at a tree from above?” Pentandra suggested.  “Like you do when you’re riding behind your bird’s eyes?”

“Oh!” Dara said, seeing what the wizard meant.  “These are the leaves on the outer circle, this is the trunk at the inner circle!”

“Right,” nodded Pentandra, pleased.  “But if you didn’t understand that, it would mean very little to you.  You’d be looking at a symbol of a tree and seeing a wagon wheel.  Unless you know the secret,” she pointed out.  “Knowing the secret is knowing the metaphor.”

“So this is a metaphor?”

“Essentially.  This is also the rune ‘selseth’, which is a simple rune meaning ‘year’ or ‘sun’.”

“Which is it?” Dara asked.

“Whichever it needs to be,” Pentandra explained.  “When you are using it in the context of a spell with a temporal component – that is, one that works over time – then it means ‘year’.  If you are trying to improve the growth of corn with a beneficial weather spell, it means ‘sun’.”

“What about a weather spell... over a period of time?” Dara asked.  “Could it mean both, or would you have to use two of them?”

“Good question,” Pentandra smiled.  “We’ll get to that, but the short answer is yes.”

“That... to which one?”

“Context,” Pentandra repeated.  “But we’ll get to that.  Right now, just focus on the idea that each of the Imperial Runes has a ‘secret’ – many of them, actually.  Their meanings are usually deeply intertwined, but in the end, they are meanings that we assign to them, not powers intrinsic to the runes themselves.  It doesn’t matter what the symbol looks like, it is the meaning with which we invest it that is important.”

“But... but what if the same symbol can have two entirely different meanings?”

“And now we come to the discussion on one of the mage’s most important skills: the manifestation of intent,” she began, taking a deep breath.  “When–”

“Pentandra?” came the voice of her new master from the narrow stairwell that led to his laboratory.  Master Minalan’s head appeared from the floor, followed by the rest of him as he bounded up the stairs.  Dara didn’t think he looked like a very dignified wizard when he did that, but then she wasn’t really sure what to expect.  Most of what she knew of wizards were from stories and legends, not personal experience.

“What is it, Min?” Lady Pentandra asked, with far more familiarity than one might expect from two professional colleagues.  Even though Master Minalan was married to Lady Alya, who wasn’t gifted with rajira, he did not seem to mind how familiar she was with him, even though he was the lord of the domain.

She’d heard it whispered around the Great Hall that their handsome Magelord and the exotic–looking Remeran wizard were lovers, once, long ago.

“Sorry, Dara,” he said, glancing at his newest apprentice for a moment before continuing.  “This is important.  I’ve just spoken to Terleman again.  The hordes are definitely on the move in his direction.  He’s already in trouble,” he added, without elaborating.

“How many?” the dark-haired woman asked, concerned.

“Far too many,” the Spellmonger said, his voice grave.  “If they aren’t relieved, and soon, they’re going to be overwhelmed.”

“You don’t think– excuse us, Dara, I think we’re done for the day,” Pentandra said, interrupting herself.  “Why don’t you get some dinner in the Great Hall before you head back to the Westwood?  Let’s get you here early, tomorrow, and see if you can’t get through a whole page, shall we?  You don’t think Terleman would surrender, do you?” she asked Minalan, turning her whole attention to him after speaking with Dara.

She might have felt miffed, had it been any other situation.  But the Magelord was responsible for far more than just the domain of Sevendor; he was apparently helping the King, himself, against the goblins who were attacking the distant west.

Dara shuddered when she thought about them.  There were tales amongst the Bovali, the poor refugees who had narrowly escaped from the valley the goblins invaded first, Boval Vale, and they were not pleasant to hear.  The goblins were possessed of a great hatred of humankind, Lady Pentandra explained to her once, and their armies wanted to push the humans off of their lands and sacrifice them to their Dead God.  They were willing to do all sorts of horrible things to do it, too.  She tried to stop hearing the stories, after the first few scared her, but it seemed nearly every Bovali refugee who’d settled in Sevendor had at least three horrific tales about the goblins.

But now the invasion from the northlands was pushing into the south, from what she understood.  That was causing all sorts of problems, and when the Duke had problems he called upon his best wizard to help.  That was Magelord Minalan, the Hero of the Wilderlands.  Her new master.

Dara descended the stairs through Master Minalan’s laboratory and through his bedchamber until she exited to the grand Great Hall of Sevendor Castle.  She never thought she’d get used to the sight, so much larger and more lordly than the Westwood Hall manor where she lived.  Though the castle was over a hundred years old, the stone gleamed bright white – the accidental result of a spell Master Minalan cast last winter during a snowstorm, to save his wife and baby in childbirth.

The spell had splashed out all over the vale that fateful night, and many who never suspected that they had a store of rajira discovered that they were suddenly sensitive to magical energies.  Including Dara.  Indeed, she’d learned, the gleaming white snowstone that spread out nearly two miles in every direction from the castle apparently reduced the natural resistance to magic that most places had.  Now Sevendor was the easiest place in the world to do magic.

If you knew how to do it in the first place, that was.

The Great Hall of Sevendor Castle was far nicer now than when she’d first seen it, a few years ago, when the disreputable Sir Erantal was in charge of the domain.  Then it had been dingy, dusty, dirty, and dark.

Now, under Minalan and Alya, the snow–white stone was gleaming, and magelights hovered permanently over the hall.  The great stone fireplace at the head was crackling with a constant flame that reminded her of home, and the banners that hung from the rafters now were recent and free from cobwebs.

The entire place made her feel safe and protected, and she valued that.  Compared to how the Sevendori viewed the castle under its previous management, that was a major change.  The folk of the vale now looked at the fortress with hope and security, not dread and despair.  That, if nothing else, was worth all of the other changes the Spellmonger brought to Sevendor.

The hall was starting to get busy as it prepared for the evening meal.  Guards and grooms, laborers and staff were beginning wash themselves at the great basin at the door of the hall, while drudges began to set up trestle tables and the servants began to set the stone high table in front of the fireplace.

Dara would always have a fond place in her heart for the Great Hall.  It was where she was hailed as the winner of the Spellmonger’s Trial, made Master Minalan’s apprentice, and celebrated in front of the entire domain.  That night marked a dramatic change in her life, from when she’d gone from being just Dara of Westwood, youngest daughter of the Master of the Wood and nascent self–taught falconer, to Apprentice Dara, the Hawkmaiden of Sevendor.  That night would always be one of the most special in her heart.

There were far more people at the castle than usual, and more servants than usual preparing for the additional guests.  The Magical Fair just ended, and the disturbing news from the west quickly overtook her dramatic victory at the Trial.  Many of Master Minalan’s friends and allies who’d attended were anxious about the sudden attack, and looked to her master for guidance.  There were also merchants and tradesmen from the fair who still had business in Sevendor, or who tarried merely out of curiosity or the opportunity for bargains after the fair.

“Dara!” called a familiar voice – Gareth, she realized, already sitting at the first line of tables in the hall.  The mage was hardly an imposing figure.  He’d come to Sevendor early in Minalan’s tenure to audition for a witchstone as a warmage, but he’d failed the Spellmonger’s rigorous tests.  He was just not physically large and strong enough, he was a bit clumsy, and he was just not belligerent enough to warrant a warmage’s witchstone.  Indeed, he was nothing like the proud, strong, tough warmagi Dara had met at the Trials.

Yet he’d stayed in Sevendor as Minalan’s loyal man after his rejection, instead of resenting it, and learned as much as he could from the Spellmonger and his friends.  Gareth ended up serving Master Minalan in many capacities, she’d learned, not the least of which was organizing and running much of the Magic Fair.  Dara was glad to at least see a friendly face amongst all of the strangers in the hall, and she decided to wait for dinner with him.

“Magic lessons?” he asked, as she sat down at the bench.

“Lady Pentandra,” Dara nodded.  “The first set of runes.  Magic as metaphor,” she said, with more exasperation in her voice than she’d intended.

“Oh, that’s a good one,” the wizard smiled, fondly.  “One of the basics, upon which all other magic depends.  You’ll probably have an easier time, one–on–one with Lady Pentandra than I did at the academy with a room full of other students, trying to keep up with the lecture... but it does explain why so many of the Archmagi were also poets and writers,” he concluded.

Dara couldn’t imagine writing anything for fun.  It was hard enough just reading.

“I understand metaphor,” she insisted.  “When I’m riding behind Frightful’s eyes, it’s not like being a falcon, it is being a falcon.  I just have a hard time seeing a couple of squiggly lines as the same as being a tree, or something,” she said, frustrated.

“It is harder transferring the concept to inanimate objects or abstract symbols,” he nodded, sympathetically.  “But it’s also essential.  Until you can make the mental commitment to the metaphor and really mean it, your spells won’t work.  And the first sets of runes are all the easy ones, the Statics and the Ordinals.  When you get to the Mutables, the Ephemerals, and the Actives, that’s when you can really start to go mad.  We won’t even speak of the dreaded Cardinals, Transits and Scalar runes,” he said, with foreboding.

“By the Flame!” Dara said, her eyes wide.  “How many runes are there?”

“In the basic Imperial system?” Gareth asked, pleased to be her resource.  “Hundreds.  But don’t worry, you’ll only use a few dozen, most of the time.  But you have to know as many as possible.  And then there are hundreds more in the apocryphal systems, the specialties, and when you get into advanced thaumaturgy, it’s like each spell has its own new set of supplementary runes.”

Dara felt ill.  She’d learned only a handful of the very first set of the most basic runes, and she’d yet to actually learn how to use them.  The task before her as an apprentice seemed daunting, at best, and impossible at worst.

“Don’t worry!” Gareth laughed, kindly, when he saw her expression.  “You’ve been at it a few days, at best, and it takes years to learn.  Once you master the basic concepts, you’ll be picking up a few a day, after a while.  And eventually, you’ll do what the masters do: you’ll look it up in some reference when you actually need it.”

“It just seems like... a lot,” she said, trying to conceal her anxiety.

“It is,” Gareth conceded, “but it’s very worthwhile.  And it’s just part of your education as a student of Imperial magic.  But it’s an essential one.  The whole foundation of Imperial magic is that we all learn the same runes and symbols so that we can work together.  Once you learn the runes by rote, you’ll have to learn thaumaturgical construction to put them together to actually make stuff happen.”

“That’s how Lady Pentandra explained it,” Dara sighed.  “You put the runes together like letters in a word.”

“Exactly!” Gareth agreed, pleased.

“. . . only I have a really, really hard time putting letters together in a word,” Dara said, despairingly.  Gareth blinked at the admission.

“Oh, compared to actually doing magic, reading is easy,” he insisted.  “You’ll pick that up in no time.  You’ll have to,” he emphasized.  “You won’t be able to do much as a student until you do.”

Dara resisted the urge to put her forehead down on the cool wood of the smooth oaken trestle table.  Terribly hard.

“I suppose it can’t be as hard as training a bird,” she sighed, calling mentally to Frightful.  Even when she was not in rapport with the bird, she and her falcon shared a connection, and it only took a tug at Frightful’s mental jesses to summon her, now.

“No, but it involves butchering fewer rabbits,” Gareth offered.

“A point,” she conceded.  There were many beautiful things about a falconer’s job.  Butchering the kills and the meat for her bird was not among them.  “But I’m still kind of confused about my duties as an apprentice,” she confessed, quietly.  “I keep expecting someone to explain, but everyone’s been kind of occupied by the news from the west.”

Gareth’s face changed immediately.  “Yes, the Gilmoran invasion.  That’s the heart of the western Riverlands.  There are hundreds of thousands of people there.”

“That’s what I understand.  But since Master Minalan and even his other apprentices have been busy, they haven’t...”

“. . . had the time to give the new girl her orientation,” Gareth finished.  “Well, I suppose I can help, though I learned in the Academy, not from a single master, but the basics are well–known.”

“Teach me, oh master!” Dara said, with exaggerated adoration.

“It’s pretty simple, actually,” Gareth said, as one of the cooks placed a trencher of stale bread in front of each of them.  “You are supposed to do pretty much whatever your master needs you to do.  In return, you slave away at ridiculously hard lessons until you face the mind–twisting horror of the journeyman’s exam.”  He considered thoughtfully.  “Oh, your master is required to feed you one meal a day, provide you a place to sleep, and give you one new suit of clothes a year at Yule.”

Dara stared at the wizard.  “Is that it?”

“It’s indentured servitude, near to slavery, for some,” Gareth considered.  “It really depends on the master.  Some are horrible,” he said, in hushed tones.  “Rondal’s former master, for instance, was particularly poor.  He’s the only apprentice out of three who survived the Siege of Boval Castle, from what people say... largely because of how horrible their master was.

“But Master Minalan is academy trained, like me and Lady Pentandra,” Gareth assured.  “His expectations are likely going to be much, much different than a traditional master.  That doesn’t mean lower,” he emphasized.  “Master Minalan is a Magelord.  He has duties to the duke and the entire land.  The gods alone know what he might ask of you, at the moment,” he said, philosophically.  “Indeed, if my suspicions are correct, he might not be able to spare the time to instruct you for a while.  The war in Gilmora,” he reminded her.  “If I know the Spellmonger, he will find some way to go.  He will insist on it.  The magelord who is in need is an old war comrade of his, and the Spellmonger is passing loyal.”

“So, he would just... leave?” she asked, suddenly worried.  She knew the situation was dire, but the war was hundreds of leagues from Sevendor.  Indeed, Sevendor was still recovering from its own small war, one in which she’d played no small part.  The idea that her new master would feel compelled to go somewhere else to fight when he’d just won back his own domain frightened Dara.

“If he felt he needed to... and if I know the man, by the look in his eyes that need is growing.  I figure he could make the journey within two weeks, if he hurried downriver soon.  But now he’s gotten the Tree Folk involved,” he added, with thoughtful gravity.  “They have magic beyond what we can do, even with witchstones.  Even with Minalan’s Witchsphere.”

Dara had been introduced to the elegant non–human folk at the Magic Fair, and she found the Alka Alon as mysterious and breathtaking as everyone else.  If they were involved, then just about anything was possible.  “But shouldn’t he stay here and tend to affairs in Sevendor?” she asked, confused.  “He’s lord of this domain.”

“If he goes to Gilmora, he might never return, Dara,” Gareth explained, quietly.  “He is a magelord, but he is also a warmage.  He was a warmage long before he was even a spellmonger,” he reminded her.  “He feels he has a duty to protect the entire Five Duchies from the goblins.  If they have penetrated as far as Gilmora, then everyone is in danger.  Even here, in Sevendor.”

“Then he should be preparing Sevendor for defense, not worrying with some other place!” Dara said, exasperated.

“Would you rather fight goblins in some far–away place, or on your doorstep, with no room for error?” Gareth proposed.  “Master Minalan is trying to do both.  Do you think he’s not torn about it?  But he has a duty.  Just as you have a duty as his apprentice to support him... even if you don’t agree with his decisions.  If Minalan decides to go help in the war, then you must let him.  And if he does not return from the war, then... well, then you will have to accept that, as well,” he said, gravely.

“Why wouldn’t he return from the war?” Dara demanded, as she raised her fist.  “He’s fought goblins plenty of times.  And he’s even more powerful now,” she bragged.  She didn’t think anything could defeat her new master, and from what many of the folk of Sevendor believed, they didn’t, either.

“Goblins are one thing,” Gareth said, keeping his voice low as the screeching of servant girls erupted behind him.  “In Gilmora, they’ve sighted... a dragon.”

“A... what?” Dara asked, her jaw dropping as Frightful finally landed on her gloved fist.

“A dragon,” Gareth repeated, his eyes downcast.  “No one has ever slain one before.”

“The goblins... have a dragon?” Dara whispered, incredulously.

“Yes!” Gareth agreed in a hiss.  “More than one, actually.  And they–”

He was interrupted by a commotion at the head of the hall, as the Spellmonger entered, followed by Lady Pentandra, Sire Cei, Baron Arathanial, and other important folk.  Dara stood with everyone else in respect, though it upset Frightful enough to send her flapping.

There was a hushed quiet as all eyes in the room went to the worn face of Master Minalan.  The expectation in the air was as thick as porridge.

“Thank you for your attention,” the Magelord announced to the hall.  “The last few days since the news from Gilmora broke have been tense.  The situation there grows dire, and it is increasingly clear that without relief Castle Cambrian will fall... and with it the defense of northern Gilmora.  If the invasion is not blunted now, there, then there is no telling how bad it could become.

“But there is no large enough force within days’ travel to counter the siege that is forming.  Nor is Cambrian a terribly stout fortress... and certainly not proof against dragons,” he pronounced, causing a chorus of gasps and murmurs from the hall.

“So I have volunteered my services to do what must be done to save the castle, and with it our hopes of a peaceful future.  If no army is near enough to relieve the castle, then I must produce one.  Luckily, I have one at hand, though it’s on the other side of the duchy.  It is the only one that might prevail.  I have a large number of warmagi and the remnants of two armies, here in Sevendor, armed and armored.  And I have my own troops,” he added, making Dara’s heart catch in her throat.  Among his troops were her father, uncles, brothers and cousins.

“As lord of Sevendor, I call my banners and summon my warriors.  We will ride to war in Gilmora.”

Chapter Two

Duty

Sevendor Castle seemed to explode with activity after word arrived about the horrible invasion of Gilmora.  Dara had only recently become aware of the distant land, but she soon learned that it was to the west, part of the Duchy of Castal.  A rich and prosperous country of cotton fields and stately castles.  But it was under attack, and the Spellmonger – Master Minalan, she corrected herself in her mind – was involved.

The men of the castle were preparing arms and armor, now.  The remnants of the defeated armies of West Fleria, and the mercenaries who lingered after the brief local war for the Magic Fair were coming to the castle eagerly, now.  Baron Arathanial and his gentlemen were constantly in the Great Hall, now, looking at maps and reviewing lists.  The warmagi who had competed in the Spellmonger’s Trial were lurking expectantly outside of the hall in the yard.  The castle garrison was practicing and drilling in earnest, and in the village below there was a constant stream of archers practicing at the butts at the edge of the Commons.

There was a tense and excited feeling in the air, entirely unlike the festive mood of the Fair for days.  And it wasn’t just the castle.  As Dara made the now-familiar trip back to Westwood Hall at the end of the day, she was surprised and depressed to see her brothers and cousins practicing their archery and dueling each other with wooden swords.  She’d thought that all the war-like activity would have stopped, after the Spellmonger ended the war with West Fleria, but the news from Gilmora had re-ignited it.

They didn’t even notice her when she came across the rope bridge at twilight.

She spent some time with Frightful, after she came home, and her bird was grateful for the attention after being neglected for a few days.  Dara felt bad about that, and tried to explain to her through their link why she had to be away . . . but Frightful persisted in thinking like a bird, and one with a low tolerance for excuses.  She didn’t understand magic lessons.

Dara went down and got a bowl of stew from the kitchen for her supper, spending a few moments in front of the Flame before she ate.  It felt good to be back here, after the cascade of changes she’d faced in the last few days.  To go from being a simple falconer – self-taught – to being a wizard was a difficult adjustment to make.  Hacking her falcon in the woods and cutting up rodents to train her was easy, compared to learning to read and understanding the nature of magic.

But she’d discovered a few things along the way, she reflected, as she ate by herself in front of the Flame.  For one, reading was not as difficult as she thought it would be.  And second . . . she was really starting to love magic.

She’d been anxious and afraid, when she realized the powers that she had and others didn’t.  When she’d first begun to slip behind Frightful’s eyes the potency of the experience had overwhelmed her other thoughts about it.  Then she had accepted the fact without understanding what it meant for her and her future.

But then she’d gone and entered that stupid contest, and ended up winning it.  And almost started a riot in doing so.  Now she had a witchstone – a shard of magical green amber that magnified her nascent powers tremendously – and an entirely new life to consider.  That alone would have been scary.  But after a few days of magic and reading lessons, she was starting to understand what magic was, and what it could do.  How a wizard could use the runes and spells they learned to force reality to do what they desired.  She had barely scratched the surface of the complex art of magic, but she was already fascinated by it.  More so than reading.  Indeed, the way Lady Pentandra taught her, the two were closely related in the Imperial System of magic she was learning.

When the Alka Alon, the strange, tiny Tree Folk of Callidore tried to teach humans magic, Lady Pentandra had told her, they couldn’t master the intricate songspells they used.  So the Alka Alon (who didn’t use reading and writing, and just seemed to remember everything) contrived the basics of the Imperial System based loosely on the idea of reading and writing.  Each rune she learned was like a letter, a fundamental concept that could mean one or several things, depending on its context with the other runes it was attached to.

Put them together the right way with the right amount of Will behind it, flood the work with the arcane power, and the runes interacted the way they were supposed to.

And stuff happened.

She was at a delicate point in her training, Lady Pentandra insisted.  She was simultaneously learning the basic runes, she was learning how to effectively raise and channel arcane power with her Talent, and she was learning the basic thaumaturgy (the science of magic) of how it all fit together . . . while also learning to read.  Pentandra was a patient and understanding teacher, thankfully, and Dara was a bright student.  In just a few days her head was spinning with concepts from each discipline, and her mind was beginning to knit them together.

In its way, it was like flying behind Frightful’s eyes for the first time: exciting, frightening, and exhausting, all at once.

She was sketching the runes of the first series on the tabletop in the remnants of some spilled ale when her brother arrived at the hall.  Dara had more than one brother, but her eldest, Kyre, was closest to her.  As the heir to the Hall he was already being groomed for leadership over the estate when their father grew too old, and usually that was a source of pride in Dara’s heart.

Yet seeing him still wearing armor and garbed for war made her want to whimper.  She’d thought that was behind them, now that the war was over.

“What are you doing, Little Bird?” he asked as he poured himself a mug of ale from the keg.

“Wizard stuff,” she shrugged, absently.  Kyre winced.

“You could be a little more specific,” he offered.  “I may not be a wizard, but I am no fool,” he reminded her.

“I’m practicing the first series of prime runes for the Imperial system, from Ryleth to Arketh, including octaves and cognates,” she stated.

“All right,” he considered.  “Perhaps I am fool.  I have no idea what you just said.”

‘I guess it’s like learning falconry, or swordplay, or anything else,” she decided with a sigh.  “Unless you know the technical language, none of it’s going to make much sense.”

“It sounds complicated,” he said, shaking his head.

“It is,” she stressed.  “It’s hard.  Really, really hard.  Harder than falconry.”

“Too hard?” he asked, concerned.

“No,” she admitted with a frustrated sigh.  “That’s the thing: I understand it, once it’s explained to me.  It’s just a lot to absorb.”  She couldn’t explain it any better than that – not without explaining why.  But when your new profession involved the true nature of reality, it wasn’t the sort of thing you could discuss with laymen in casual conversation.

“You’ll get it,” he said, patting her shoulder encouragingly, as he sat on the bench next to her.  “You got this overgrown hen to hunt, didn’t you?  Hello, Frightful!” he said, stroking the back of the bird’s head.  While Frightful tolerated most people, Kyre was one of the few she recognized and liked.  He’d always been respectful of her efforts to train the falcon, and had encouraged her when others had shaken their heads.  “She’s missed you,” he observed.

“I know, but I can’t very well learn magic while she’s around,” Dora complained.  “She wants to play.  She’s distracting.  I need to concentrate when I’m learning this stuff!  But she thinks I’m neglecting her!”

“I’m sure that she just misses you—”

“No, she actually thinks I’m neglecting her,” Dara stated, matter-of-factly.  “I know what she’s thinking, remember?  She’s angry with me.  There’s nothing worse than having your bird angry with you!” she said, glaring at the falcon who glared back.  “She won’t be happy until I take her hunting again.  And with so much going on in the Vale right now, I’d worry about doing that.”

“The Vale might be emptier, soon,” Kyre said, quietly.  “We haven’t gotten official word, yet, but we’ve been told to stay armored and ready to deploy.  And to keep practicing our drills at the castle yard.  I don’t quite understand why,” he sighed.  “The invasion is all the way in Gilmora, yet we’ve been ordered to stay ready.”  He glanced up at the Flame.  “I was hoping my darling little sister, who spends her days at the castle with the Magelord, might know something.”

Part of Dara was indignant that her brother was being so friendly to her just to get information . . . but another part of her was excited to be her big brother’s informant.  She just wished she had better intelligence to pass to him.

“I haven’t heard much,” she admitted.  “They’ve been talking a lot, and everyone is preparing, but . . .”

He sighed.  “I was afraid of that.  It looks like we’re going to be deployed quickly, likely a fast barge trip and then a forced-march.  Or something,” he said, shaking his head.  “It’s the waiting that really gets to you.”

“I’m sure we’ll hear something soon,” she soothed.  “But Master Minalan hasn’t had much time for me, and mostly I just try to stay out of the way.  The Emissaries take up most of his time,” she sighed.

“You’ve . . . met them?” Kyre asked, his eyes gleaming with excitement.  Everyone in Sevendor was talking about the three exotic Alka Alon women who had arrived in Sevendor as Emissaries from the ancient non-human race to the Spellmonger.

The Alka Alon – who until recently Dara had considered a myth – were the legendary Tree Folk, a diminutive people of incredible magic who lived, it was said, in secret enchanted forests.  The myths said they were tiny, no taller than a grown man’s waist, and lived forever.

But the three Emissaries who’d arrived on Matten’s Helm, the bare hill in the middle of the Vale, were not small.  In fact, when Dara met them, they looked like human women . . . incredibly slender, impossibly beautiful women, with a few small differences from normal humans that made them even more exotic looking.

They had changed their forms, Lady Pentandra had explained to her, to aid communication between the two races.  For some reason, the ancient masters of magical song were very intrigued with Sevendor, and the Magelord in particular.  Master Minalan and Lady Pentandra and the other wizards at the castle treated the three strikingly beautiful Emissaries with great respect and honor, as they advised them.

“Yes, I’ve met them,” Dara sighed.  “Lady Ithalia, Lady Varen, and Lady Falawen are their names.  They’re quite striking,” she said, quietly.  “And more than a little intimidating.”

“They’re . . . beautiful!” Kyre said, dreamily.

Dara was appalled.  She had always respected her oldest brother’s apparent immunity to the annoying giggles of the girls of the Vale, and to see him so smitten with the non-human Alka Alon was startling.  But then, she considered, the Emissaries seem to have that effect on most men.  Thank the Flame they were nice, Dara considered.

“Yes,” she said, dryly.  “They are.  They’re also incredibly powerful,” she continued.  “They use music for their magic,” she explained.  “They have beautiful voices . . . like little bells,” she said, fondly.

“Their voices sound like bells?” Kyre asked, enchanted.

“It’s their magic that’s the most impressive,” Dara said, trying to change the subject.  “They can do things that Imperial magic can’t even try.  They can sing one little verse in that beautiful language of theirs and do as much as a human mage could do in a day.”

“Then why don’t we use their magic?” Kyre asked, curious.  “You can sing.  Kind of,” he added.

Dara rolled her eyes.  “It doesn’t work that way,” she sighed.  “I wish it was just a matter of learning a few tunes – that would be a lot easier than what I’ve been learning,” she said, gesturing at the table.  “But our minds don’t work the same way.  It isn’t just the song – or the spell – it’s how you think of things while you do it.”

“You have to think things, too?” Kyre asked, with a snort.

“That’s mostly what magic is,” she complained.  “And it’s a lot harder than you’d imagine.  The words and gestures and such are just to help you keep things orderly.  The magic is really in your mind,” she said, tapping her forehead.  “Each of these runes I’m studying and memorizing means something.  I’m learning how to keep each one active in my mind at the same time,” she boasted, wanting to share her new skills with someone.

Unfortunately, Kyre did not seem particularly interested.

“This from a girl who can’t remember to close the kennel door behind her,” Kyre said, standing and kissing her on top of the head.

“Hey!” Dara complained.  “I was six!”

“Puppies,” her brother said, with mock horror as he wandered away.  “Puppies everywhere!”

Despite herself Dara giggled at the overly dramatic display.  It was nice, being reminded that despite all her new knowledge and responsibilities as the Spellmonger’s apprentice, she was still just someone’s sister.  Especially when she had a brother like Kyre.

A brother who would likely march away to war, she reminded herself, grimly.  Perhaps never to return.

Dara tried to stifle the morbid thought, but it persisted.  It was not fair, she steamed, that her brothers and father and uncles would be put into danger when it wasn’t even properly Sevendor’s fight.  There were plenty of other warriors around, after the siege of Sevendor was broken – why did the Westwoodmen need to go fight?

She knew the answer to that, too: it was their duty.

Dara hated that word.  It meant that you had to do something, whether you wanted to or not.  Like chores, she reasoned, only chores that could get you killed.  She resented a world where her brothers were so at risk of death.  Protecting and defending the Vale was one thing – but how could it be a man’s duty to go fight to protect some other land?

She knew the answers she’d get if she was bold enough to ask such questions of her father, her uncle, or even Master Minalan.  The goblins that had driven the Bovali from their homes in the far west had invaded even deeper into human territory.  They had sent an army of thousands down from the distant Wilderlands and toward the heartland of the Five Duchies.

Only a few months ago she would have had very little idea about just that meant.  The lands in danger were an unimaginable distance away.  But her recent education had included a growing understanding of just how big the world was.  The maps that Master Minalan had been poring over for days showed Dara the distances involved, and her flying Frightful had given her an appreciation of them.  Her falcon could traverse the entire Vale in a matter of minutes.  The invasion of distant Gilmora would have taken her weeks to reach by wing, and months by foot.

But those very distances were one of the reasons for concern.  She’d overheard how the great army of goblins had reached Gilmora with unexpected speed, surprising the knights with their terrible advance.  The goblins were using magic to aid their invasion . . . which was why the new King had called upon the most powerful wizard in the land, her master, Minalan, for his assistance in stopping the invasion.

And Minalan, Magelord of Sevendor, had called upon the men under his command for their military service.  Her family.  It was their duty to go, if called upon, and there was nothing she could do about it.

She brooded about the idea of never seeing her brothers, father, and uncles again until Frightful began pushing her beak up against Dara’s cheek.  It was a gentle but annoying reminder that her bird was sharing the shadows that were perturbing her.  The falcon’s mind was not complicated, but it could understand the dark emotions Dara was feeling, and was sharing a feeling of alarm and concern in return.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Dara cooed, stroking the bird behind its eyes.   “I didn’t mean to disturb you!”

Frightful allowed Dara to calm her down, which involved a lot of Dara calming down.  As she did so, she considered that she could not lose control of herself like that anymore.  Not only did it affect Frightful’s mood, but now that she was learning magic an uncontrolled emotional outburst could have even more dramatic consequences.  She’d witnessed Master Minalan getting so upset that he had unintentionally produced magical effects.  A mage who could not control their emotions was a danger, she heard Lady Pentandra’s voice instructing her at her lessons.  Especially a mage who held a shard of irionite.

That was her new duty, she realized.  Just as her father had to lead the Westwoodmen at the Magelord’s bidding, she had a duty to control herself, now.  That was part of a wizard’s responsibility, she knew.  The powers she was learning were dangerous, even when well-controlled.  Dara was just realizing how dangerous, as she explored even simple magics concerning something like fire or air.  Once you knew how to shape and alter reality, using the runes and the power flowing through the Magosphere, then it was all too easy to let your anger or anxiety seep out and inflict itself on the world around you.  Especially in Sevendor, where the snowstone made magic far easier than elsewhere.

It didn’t seem fair, she grumbled to herself.  How were you supposed to have any feelings if they could pop out and zap someone?

Another hard peck from Frightful encouraged her to abandon her frustration.  She didn’t think her cheek could take many more objections like that.

The next morning, she was making her way back to the castle after an early breakfast in Westwood Hall, quietly reviewing the runes that had become so important that they haunted her dreams, now, when she almost bumped into a wizard.  A very tall wizard.

Among all the newcomers to the Vale who had arrived since the Magelord took power in Sevendor, one of the most striking was the tall, broad figure of Master Olmeg the Green.  The mage had been hired by Master Minalan as his Greenwarden – a title Dara had never heard before – the official in the domain responsible for all of the plants in his lands.

When Dara and her kin had first heard of the man, they were skeptical – magic was the realm of great power, subtle spells, and scholarship, not mere plants and crops.  It seemed like a needless, wasteful expense when the Vale had so much else that needed attention.  Plants already knew how to grow – why did they need magic?

But their skepticism dissolved quickly after meeting the strange wizard.  For months he had quietly crossed all of Sevendor, usually bearing a wheelbarrow full of soil or seedlings, his big bare feet shuffling through the land in wide steps.

He dressed more like a peasant than a mage, it was whispered – he wore a dirty smock under his mantle, over tough trousers instead of tights, like most wizards wore.  He was also one of the few wizards who’d come to Sevendor who wore the pointed hat of his profession every day, which only served to make him seem that much taller.  But wherever he plied his trade, it was observed, the crops he advised planting thrived beyond all expectation.

It was his manner that won the respect of the Westwoodmen, however, not his powers.  Universally polite and respectful himself, Master Olmeg’s calm demeanor and deep voice made everyone who spoke with him want to help fulfill his vision of a wildly fertile Vale.

At his direction, the peasants across the valley had begun planting potatoes and beans, maize and oats, and had changed what kinds of wheat and rye they usually planted.  The results at harvest – even with the disruption of the siege – had been no less than spectacular.  Even with three times the population that it used to bear, Sevendor’s granaries and storehouses were bulging with food going into winter for the first time in living memory.

But it was Master Olmeg’s great respect for forestry that had won over the Westwoodmen.  As the caretakers of Sevendor’s primary forest resources, all too often the Westwood had argued against the cavalier demands of the castle when it came to producing lumber.  The old tenant lord, Sir Erantal used to complain bitterly at the miserly way the Master of the Hall provided timber.  But the Westwoodmen knew that it took lifetimes for trees to mature into timber, and though it appeared to an outsider that the Westwood had an endless supply, everyone on this side of the Chasm knew it wouldn’t take long to exhaust it.

Apparently Master Olmeg shared that view.  Though much of the forest outside of the Chasm had been cleared for the construction needs of the castle and Sevendor Town, Master Olmeg had prevailed upon the Spellmonger to purchase timber from other domains, rather than deplete the remaining forest in the Westwood.  That had found great favor with her father.  When Master Olmeg insisted to the Magelord that the cleared land be immediately replanted with trees, not crops – particularly after it had been transformed by the snowstone spell – he’d won the admiration of the entire Westwood.

Dara had little interaction with the man, right up until they had both found themselves members of the castle magical corps during the siege.  The conversations that she had with the man during that chaotic time had only served to increase her respect for the big man.  He treated her as an adult, not a child.  She was still not used to that.

The tall wizard looked down at her thoughtfully, his lips pursed around the long stem of his pipe, his kind green eyes were kind.

“Ah, Maid Lenodara!” he said formally, with a little bow.  “How do you fare this lovely autumn morning?”

“As well as any, Master Olmeg,” Dara replied.  “I am headed to the castle for yet more lessons.  Do you have business in the Westwood today?” she inquired, politely.  Wasn’t that what adults did?  Ask each other nosy questions about what they were doing?

“Indeed,” the deep voice of the green mage assured her.  “I seek guidance from the Master of the Wood on planting the new seedlings I acquired at the Magic Fair.  I think several species of the weirwood cuttings will thrive in the cleared areas.  But I need to know about rainfall and such, and your folk know that better than any.”

“Can’t you just do a spell and find out?” Dara asked, boldly.  It seemed silly to just ask a question, when a wizard had access to such information by magic.

“There are limitations to magic, my dear,” Olmeg informed her, patiently.  “I could, indeed, use a spell to determine the technical answer to my question.  Indeed, I shall be doing that in addition to asking the Master of the Wood.  A wise wizard seeks to use all the resources at her disposal, not just the magical ones.  There are many tales of magi who relied on magic when wisdom would have served their purposes better.  Few of them end well for the mage,” he said with a deep, infectious chuckle.

“So why are you planting weirwood, Master?” Dara asked, curious.  She’d heard of the mysterious tree before; it was a favorite wood for wizards, but she didn’t understand why.

“Because there are no natural stands of it nearby,” he explained, “and it is a highly desirable commodity that I believe will be a boon to the economy of Sevendor.”

“But why is it useful?” Dara repeated.  Olmeg realized that she was unaware, but instead of getting frustrated he patiently explained.

“Weirwood is a material that is highly sensitive to magic,” he told her, taking a wand out of his belt to demonstrate.  “It takes an enchantment easier than any other wood, and it holds it longer.

“Additionally, various varieties are particularly attuned to specific types of magic.  The Longneedle variety, for example, is ideal for green spells and water seeking,” he said, displaying his wand for her.  “Weirwood excels at allowing a wizard to conserve and direct arcane power.  And good stocks of it fetch a high price at market.  I believe that a grove planted in the outer forest will thrive, with the lower etheric resistance provided by the snowstone effect.  And perhaps another stand within the Westwood, to supply the needs of our own wizards,” he added, with a wink to her.  “That includes yourself, now, does it not?”

“I suppose it does,” Dara admitted, still uncomfortable with her strange new profession.  “Although calling me a wizard at this point seems silly.”

“Ah, but you are just starting to understand your powers,” Olmeg said, knowingly, as he put the wand away.  “Nor is the measure of the wizard how many spells he knows.  In fact, Lenodara, you are the first native Sevendori wizard in living memory.  The Spellmonger, Banamor, and I are all newcomers to your land.  You, more than any of us, represent the future of magic in Sevendor.”

Dara swallowed hard, despite herself.  “What exactly do you mean by that?” she asked.  “Because right now I feel like an untrained apprentice with a half-trained falcon, stumbling around the outside of everything that’s happening.”

“You were born here,” Olmeg said, nodding toward Westwood Hall, still visible over the trees on the other side of the Chasm.  “Every bit of you came from the soil of Sevendor, just like every tree you see.  That provides you a connection with the land here that not even the Spellmonger will ever match.”

“So, a wizard is tied to the place he was born?” Dara asked, confused.

“A wizard who understands the subtle power of such things knows that he can draw power and guidance from the lands which contributed to his growth,” Olmeg explained . . . which did little to help Dara’s understanding.  “Most other disciplines don’t recognize that kind of connection, but those of us who practice Green Magic know that such subtleties can be a great boon to those who understand them.”

He paused, and smoked his pipe for a moment before continuing.  “Of course, that also invokes a special duty in that wizard.  A duty to protect and conserve the land.  Also something that most of the other arcane disciplines don’t properly understand,” he added, sadly.

“Well, I did what I could to protect Sevendor during the siege,” Dara admitted with a sigh.  “Does that count?”

Olmeg smiled broadly around his pipestem.  “That’s certainly a good start!  A wizard who respects the land and nurtures it will gain its support and power, at need.  Not just from the people, but from the animals and plants, as well.  But in order to do that, you have a duty to invest yourself in the land.  You, Lenodara, have a unique opportunity to do that in a way no other mage in living history has: for you have the fortune to have been born in Sevendor at a time when the snowstone has made magic plentiful and potent.”

Dara wasn’t certain how to feel about that.  While the big wizard’s compliment made her feel special, it also added a burden to her that she didn’t realize that she’d been carrying: the idea that she was the first native-born mage in Sevendor in recent history.

Certainly, the arrival of the Spellmonger had something to do with that, she figured . . . but considering the amount of learning she had ahead of her, from reading to runes to spellwork, the idea that she was even more special made part of her want to go back to being a simple falconer.

Master Olmeg bid her a pleasant day and continued on with his errand to the Westwood, while Dara made her way along the increasingly busy path toward the castle.  If she walked a little slower, perhaps it was due to the new burden of duty she bore.

It wasn’t until Dara arrived at Sevendor Castle that she would discover just how heavy a burden that duty could be.

Chapter Three

Apprentices On The Stairs

Master Minalan was closeted with one of the Emissaries, Lady Varen, when Dara made her way to the tower as she did every morning, now.  Usually the Spellmonger would have a few small errands or chores for her to do before he assigned her to some lessons with Lady Pentandra or one of the other wizards who frequented Sevendor Castle these days.  Today, with the door to his tower lab closed, she figured she’d sit on the stairs outside until someone decided they needed her for something.

Dara discovered she wasn’t the only one doing so, today.  Her two fellow apprentices, Sir Tyndal and Sir Rondal, were also awaiting the Spellmonger’s appearance and instructions.

She hadn’t gotten to know much about the two Wilderlands boys who Master Minalan brought with him to the castle.  They had only a few interactions at the Champion’s Feast, after she’d won the Spellmonger’s Trial, before Minalan sent them off on various errands.

The taller of the two, Tyndal, had an unruly shock of dirty blonde hair that seemed to flop in front of his eyes every five minutes.  Rondal, shorter but more broadly built, had the shade her aunt called “peasant brown”, cut in a stark bowl-shape.  Both boys were lounging on the stairs under Minalan’s door when she arrived.

“Ah!  It’s our replacement!” Tyndal greeted her with mock indignation.  Dara had found him an incurable tease.

“Good morning, Dara,” Rondal said, glumly, as he sat hunched over on the wooden stairs.  “Welcome to the special hell of being an apprentice: sitting around and waiting for someone to tell you what to do.”

Dara nodded to both of them – they were both seniors to her, in rank – and found a spot on the stairs near Rondal.

“What are they doing in there?” she asked, hesitantly.

“Plotting how to deal with an army of goblins.  Again,” sighed Tyndal, resigned.  “More bad news from Gilmora: the knights keep losing against the gurvani in the field.  And then there are the dragons . . .”

“Dragons?” Dara asked, alarmed.  She’d hoped Gareth was wrong, and that they were mythical beasts, like unicorns or kindly tax collectors.

“Yes, dragons,” Rondal agreed, soberly.  “The goblin shamans have managed to tame a few.  If tame is the appropriate word.  Five castles and towns in Gilmora were attacked and destroyed this week by dragons – behind our lines.  They’re calling it the Day of the Dragons.  Thousands have died.  Worse, the attacks ruined our plans to defend Gilmora, as they all targeted our largest garrisons.  We’re regrouping,” he added, hopefully.  “Our remaining forces have retreated to Cambrian Castle, but there’s not much in the way of relief for them, anywhere nearby.  And they’re all that stand between the invasion and the rest of Gilmora.”

“Real . . . dragons?” Dara asked, trying to imagine such a thing.

“We saw one, once, in battle in Alshar,” Tyndal bragged.  “It was massive.  Utterly terrifying.  It captivates the entire battlefield.  When a dragon arrives at your party, it tends to dominate the discussion.  And it makes it difficult to recruit troops to fight a goblin invasion when you have dragons falling out of the sky.”

“Things are pretty bad,” agreed Rondal, troubled.  “There’s a long road that extends from the Wilderlands down into Gilmora,” he explained.  “It’s called the Timber Road, from when the Duke of Alshar was buying timber from the Wilderlands to build a fleet in Enultramar.  It’s barely used, anymore.  But it leads right into Gilmora, and the Dead God marched a massive horde down it, straight into the heart of the territory.”

“I thought goblins – gurvani – were short and weak?” Dara asked, confused.  She’d heard a lot about the creatures who’d driven Tyndal, Rondal, and the rest of the Bovali from their homes.  They were politely called the Mountain Folk, though she’d learned they called themselves “gurvani”.  They were known to their human neighbors as “goblins”, and in war they were known derisively as “scrugs”.

Whatever they were called, they were causing a lot of problems for the folk of the Wilderlands.  And beyond, she realized.  Gilmora was only a name to her, but it was associated with rich cotton fields and wealthy, decadent lords, not the rustic life of the Wilderlands.

“They are short and weak,” agreed Tyndal.  “There are also a lot of them.  And they are driven in their invasion by half-mad shamans, each bearing a witchstone.”

“They’re also pretty vexed with us for driving them from their traditional homelands, a century ago or so,” Rondal added.  “I guess I can’t blame them,” he said, philosophically.

“I can!” Tyndal snorted.  “We weren’t doing them any harm in Boval Vale.  There was no need to invade and kill all of those people.”

“I’m sure they feel about their homes the way we do about ours,” Rondal shot back with practiced patience.  “What do you think, Dara?  If someone tried to take over Sevendor, would you fight?”

“Me?  Well, someone did just try to take over Sevendor, remember, and we all fought,” she replied, thoughtfully.  “So I suppose I can see their point.  But why are they continuing to fight, after they got what they wanted?”

“Because that wasn’t all they wanted,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.  “They want all humans dead.  Or enslaved and then dead,” he added, grimly.  “They’re taking a lot of prisoners.”

“I . . . I didn’t know that.  Why?”

“Because even under goblin rule, someone still needs to plow and plant, reap and harvest,” Rondal answered.  “If they can enslave humans for those tasks, then they can spare more warriors for the invasion.”

“And you do not want to know what happens to them when they stop being useful,” Tyndal said, cryptically.

“Why not?”

“Trust us,” Rondal insisted.  “He’s actually right, for once.  You do not want to know.”

The shorter apprentice was so insistent and serious that Dara ignored her basic desire to find out.  From their expressions it looked like a matter she’d best drop – she’d learned that much from her older brothers.

“So what is Master Minalan going to do?” she asked, trying to put aside the outlandish ideas her imagination supplied about useless human slaves.

“He’s trying to prepare a counterattack,” Tyndal informed her, matter-of-factly.  “Hard to do, when you’re almost two thousand miles away from the fight, but that’s what wizards do.”

“There’s not a lot that he can do,” Rondal agreed.  “The new King has asked for his help, and he’s trying . . . but there’s precious little even magic can do against a horde.  We proved that at Boval Castle.  Even with trained warmagi, using witchstones, they still have more numbers than we do.”

“King Rard would be better advised to raise an army of his own,” Tyndal speculated.  “Man-for-man, we’re the better fighters.  And magi,” he added.

“What do you think he’s doing?” Rondal snorted, irritated.  “He’s raising troops in the south as quickly as he can.  But it takes time to prepare an army.  Weeks.  Months.”

“Castle Cambrian doesn’t have days,” Tyndal replied, hotly.  “If we don’t find a way to relieve them, Master Terleman and his men are goblin food!”

“Who’s Terleman?” Dara asked, innocently.

“One of the better warmagi in the Five Duchies.  In the Kingdom,” Rondal corrected.  Everyone was still getting used to the idea that there was a king ruling over them, now.  “He commands the troops at Cambrian.  He’s an old friend of Master Min’s,” he assured her.  “They campaigned together in Farise, and Terleman was one of the warmagi who helped out with the siege in Boval.  He’s almost as good as Master Min.”

“He’s a better warmage than Minalan,” Rondal countered.  “Minalan is a better thaumaturge,” he conceded.

“That’s arguable!” Tyndal retorted, crossing his arms.

“Not right now, it’s not,” Dara interjected.  She might be the junior apprentice, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be subjected to some stupid argument between the boys.  “Right now I just want to know what’s going to happen.  My brothers and my father are all wound up like a crossbow, awaiting word.”

“That is the special hell of soldiers,” Tyndal snorted.  “Every day.  ‘Make haste and bide’ is our watchword,” he said, with mock solemnity.

“At least you’re spared that,” Rondal said, kindly.  “We aren’t even officially warmagi; we just got knighted.  But we’re still sworn soldiers of the Spellmonger,” he added, with a trace of misery in his voice.  “You’re lucky: you’re a girl.  You’ll get to stay here where it’s safe.  When Master Min does come up with some mad plan, you can safely wager that we’ll be right in the thick of it.” Rondal looked up suddenly.  “Unless, perhaps, he’s started training you in warmagic,” he suggested.

“Flame! No!” Dara assured him, hugging her knees.  “I’ve just been learning runes from Lady Pentandra, mostly.  And elementary thaumaturgical theory.”  She was still unused to the strange words, and they sounded odd in her young voice.  She expected both boys to tease her about how simple the runes were, but they groaned in sympathy instead.

“Those are the worst!” Tyndal assured her, making a horrible face.

“They really are,” Rondal agreed with a sigh.  “Once you get past the first few, it will get a lot easier.  Like reading.  At a certain point, you just . . . understand it,” he said, struggling to describe the process.  Then he glanced toward Tyndal.  “Most of us,” he corrected.

“I only struggle with the third and fourth lines, now,” Tyndal said, uneasily.  “The active and permissive courses.”

“Which you almost never use,” Rondal said, sagely.  “Unless you want to actually want to be a practicing journeyman who can cast real wards or something else useful one day.”

“I’m working on them!” Tyndal said, defensively.  “I just get them confused sometimes!”  Clearly this was a common discussion between the two.  Rondal seemed more adept at the technical aspects of her new craft.  Tyndal was . . . enthusiastic.

“It’s a good thing you’re pretty,” Rondal said to his fellow apprentice, shaking his head sadly.  “Perhaps you’ll marry well.  But don’t worry, Dara, once you get to the second and third courses things will start coming a lot easier.  I promise.  If you get to a hard spot, come talk to me.  Me,” he emphasized, pointing at himself.  “No need to get someone killed over a cantrip!” he muttered, cutting his eyes at Tyndal.

“So . . . you think I’m pretty?” Tyndal asked, mimicking the kind of vanity a girl like Dara’s sister, Lista, would show.  She giggled despite herself at the mocking display.

“Only from afar,” Rondal promised.   “When you get to enchanting, then you can talk to Tyn.  He’s marginally better at certain aspects of it than I am,” he said, grudgingly.  “But if you can find a drunken goblin witchdoctor, you might fare better,” Rondal suggested.

Tyndal ignored the jibe.  “She’s getting tutored by Lady Pentandra,” Tyndal said, solemnly.  “There’s no better teacher.  Banamor isn’t bad, for simple stuff,” he reasoned, referring to the footwizard who had arrived last year, and become one of Master Minalan’s most trusted servants.  “And Master Olmeg is great . . . provided the subject is onions,” he sneered.

“What about Gareth?” Dara asked, suddenly.  The two boys looked at each other and shrugged.

“Gareth’s really good,” Rondal nodded.  “Especially anything to do with thaumaturgy.  He’s incredibly good at that, not just theory, but the practical stuff.  He’s a decent alchemist, too.”

“Just don’t ask him about warmagic,” snorted Tyndal.  “He’s the worst!”

“Why would she ask anyone about warmagic?” demanded Rondal, irritated.  “She’s a civilian.  The last thing she needs is to learn a bunch of useless warmagic spells.  She needs to focus her attention on the rudiments.”

“If things don’t go well in Gilmora, she might have to,” Tyndal said, moodily.

“Don’t talk like that!” snapped Rondal.  “Master Minalan will handle Gilmora.  He’s up there now, planning and plotting,” he said with confidence . . . and a little bit of doubt, Dara noted.  “He’s got all those new magical weapons the Alka Alon gave us.”

“That we have no idea how to use,” reminded Tyndal.  “Are you hungry?  I’m getting hungry.”

“I just ate,” Dara said, absently.  “The Tree Folk gave us weapons?”  That just didn’t seem like the friendly non-humans, as she knew them from lore.

“We don’t really know,” admitted Tyndal. glumly.  “A bunch of them apparently showed up to the new king’s coronation and gave us a bunch of amazing magical artifacts to help the war effort. . . that we know nothing about.  That’s what Lady Varen is trying to explain to Master Min, now.  I hope they are,” he added, nervously wiping his hands on his hose.  “Minalan was trying out a few yesterday.  It didn’t . . . go well,” he added, scowling.  “He almost hurt some people by accident.  But I hope he can figure it out.  It would be nice to defeat the goblins without actually having to fight goblins.”

Dara spent most of the morning on the stairwell, and she learned a great deal about the two senior apprentices.  Despite their odd accents, acrimony, and constant teasing, they volleyed the worst of the insults at each other, not her.  Indeed, they were generally welcoming and friendly toward her, which she found a relief.

Eventually they got around to the subject of her falconry, and what it was like to hunt a falcon.  That was more her element than magic, and she spent the better part of an hour explaining the long, complex process of training a hunting falcon.  The boys seemed genuinely interested, and never once suggested that she was poorly prepared or unsuited to the task because she was a girl.  Or a commoner.

She discovered that before their knightings on the field after the Battle of Timberwatch, they – like all magi – were prohibited from taking lands or titles of nobility.  But King Rard had changed all that, and threw the bothersome Censorate of Magic out of his realm.

“You never, ever want to meet a Censor,” Rondal explained, solemnly.  “Garkesku was terrified of them, and he had his working papers in order.  They wore black and white checkered cloaks, and carried mageblades, among other weapons.  And they could have you imprisoned by their word, if they found you violating the Bans in any way.”

“They used to kill footwizards and wild magi,” Tyndal nodded.  “They still do in the Eastern duchies, I suppose.”  Those were lands not under the King’s control, she’d learned.  “Getting caught with witchstone?  Instant hanging,” he assured her.

“They could go after your entire family, on the pretext that your kin might have rajira.  They recruited only the youngest, most fanatical wizards out of the Academy.  The best thing Master Min ever did was insist that Rard banish them and break their order.”

“Pure fanatics,” nodded Tyndal.  “They tried to bust up Master Min’s wedding,” he added, though she’d heard the story.  Twice, now.  “They have a price on his head, it’s said, grimly.  “And maybe ours,” he added, resigned.

“They hate us, and Master Min most of all,” Rondal said, philosophically.  “They’ll do just about anything to capture or kill him.  And us,” he conceded.  “It’s odd to have enemies.”

“I’m used to it,” dismissed Tyndal.  “But until you know how to protect yourself, if you see a checkered cloak, run.”

“It’s the Censors without checkered cloaks that disturb me,” Rondal said.  “When they take them off, they’re a lot harder to spot.  But no less fanatical.  They even tried to attack Master Min and Banamor at the Chepstan Fair!” he said, outraged.

“Hey!  I rescued him!” Tyndal insisted.

“Baron Arathanial rescued him,” Rondal argued.  “And he didn’t really need rescuing.  But they’d violated their Fair Oath when they started a fight, so Arathanial fined them and ejected them.  I doubt they’d try to come to Sevendor, after that.”

They were just about to explain the confusing politics of that to her when the door at the top of the stairs opened.  Master Minalan peered down at them.

“Good, you’re here,” he grunted at the three apprentices.  “Boys, I have some errands for you,” he informed them.  “But first I want to talk to Dara.  I need to ask you something.”

“Tell me, Dara,” Master Minalan, Magelord of Sevendor, began as he sat himself on a stool in front of his workbench.  Lady Varen, the unearthly Emissary from the Alka Alon, stood nearby with Lady Pentandra as he interviewed her.  “When you’re riding behind Frightful’s eyes – when you are in rapport with her – how does it feel?  What do you experience?”

The question came as a surprise.  She expected to be quizzed about her reading, or how well she was mastering the runes, or her ability to conjure magesight – the essential ability of a wizard to see magically.  Dara was unprepared for questions regarding the special portion of her Talent that allowed her to naturally send her consciousness into animals to communicate and direct them – known commonly in the wizard’s trade as Brown Magic, she’d learned.

“Uh, it’s kind of like putting on a mask,” she said, struggling to come up with words adequate to describe that special feeling when she and Frightful were of one mind.  “You see through her eyes, you hear through her ears, you feel the wind and such just the way she does.”

“And you don’t find this . . . disconcerting?” Minalan asked, curious.

“It was at first,” Dara agreed, recalling the first time she accidentally slid behind Frightful’s eyes during training.  “I didn’t know what had happened.  But once I got used to it, it was like putting on a comfortable pair of hose,” she shrugged.  “Flying was the hardest bit to get used to.  That, and how she looks at everything.  She doesn’t see things the way we do,” Dara stressed.  “It’s difficult to describe, but she sees and notices movement more than color or shape.”

“Ah!” Master Minalan nodded.  “That’s what I was looking for.  Why is flying difficult?  The perspective?”

“Oh, that was a little hard to master,” she nodded, remembering the horrid vertigo she got when she first started flying Frightful magically.  “You get used to it pretty quickly, though.  I don’t even think about it anymore.  I suppose it’s like swimming: when you’re doing it, you don’t realize that you’re moving differently than you do when you’re walking.  You just accept that you are in water and you swim.  I mean, once your feet don’t touch anymore,” she added.

“Now that’s an interesting analogy,” Tyndal nodded.  Lady Varen, on the other hand, looked puzzled.

“Then perhaps more practice is the answer,” she suggested in her odd, bell-like voice.

“We don’t have time for more practice,” Master Minalan sighed.  “Not if it is to be effective.  But if Dara is able to handle the transition, perhaps she can wield the Knife.”

“She is but a child!” Lady Varen protested.

“All of us humans are but children to your long-lived race,” Master Minalan pointed out.

“Dara is on the cusp of womanhood, among her own people; no doubt she’d be wed within the next year or two, had her Talent not arrived,” Lady Pentandra added.  “In this war, we all must fight, at need.”

“Fight?” Dara asked, confused.

“In a manner of speaking,” Master Minalan said, thoughtfully.  “I don’t need you to don armor or wield a sword, but in there are more ways to wage war than that.  Especially against this foe.  The gurvani aren’t like the men who besieged Sevendor,” he explained.  “They are cunning and vicious, when compelled by their dark masters: a cult of shamans who lead them on the Dead God’s behalf.  They carry witchstones,” he said, darkly.  “That’s where I got my original stone, from the hand of a defeated shaman.”

“The gurvani want to see all human life extinguished,” Lady Pentandra explained.

“But why?” Dara demanded.  That was a question that had never been properly answered, to her satisfaction.  “Why do they want to kill us?  What did we do to them? I still can’t believe all of this is because of some war that happened a 100 years ago!”

“That was the greatest insult they wish to avenge in this war. But is not the only one. Many ancient slights led to their wrath,” Lady Varen informed her.  “Now they fix their hate on your people, for taking their lands from them.  And mine for . . . other reasons.”

“Though it was the Alshari Wilderlords who conquered them, they make no distinction between us,” Minalan nodded, as he took an elegantly carved, highly polished cask off a shelf.  “So they make war.  And we, in turn, are forced to defend ourselves.  Right now that defense is concentrated on the far castle of Cambrian, in Gilmora.  I have a number of warmagi there, as well as knights and warriors.  But they are besieged and outnumbered.  There is no good relief for them in days’ ride.  So we are concocting a response . . . magically.  And among the weapons that I hold is this,” he said, tapping the box.

“This was a gift from the Alka Alon, upon the occasion of King Rard’s coronation,” Master Minalan explained as he placed a box on his worktable opened it.  “It’s a legendary weapon, one that appears in their sagas.  It was once used in the ancient wars between their noble houses,” he said, as he unveiled the object within the cask.  “It’s called the Thoughtful Knife.”

Dara stared at the strange, smooth object with a mixture of curiosity, intrigue, and dread.  It didn’t look like a knife.  It looked like an over-sized arrowhead: a smooth, metallic form, longer than her arm.  It swept back from a wickedly deadly point to make a slender delta.  Where the top and bottom came together a gleaming edge, a blade sharper than any razor, lead the wing.

“What does it do?” she asked as she examined the deadly-looking artifact.

“It’s a weapon,” Minalan explained, as he removed a gem from the elegantly decorated protrusion on the top of the Knife.  “It uses magic to fly.  The leading edges of the wings are magically sharp, creating a wide and irresistible blade.  The blade can cut through nearly anything, especially at the speeds the Knife can travel.  But it’s . . . difficult to control.  It’s magical, of course.  The Alka Alon fashioned it so that the wielder could steer and direct this fearsome blade from afar and strike their enemies.  Properly employed, it was a deadly spell, and slew thousands.”

“Yet despite days’ worth of practice, I can’t seem to master it,” the Magelord confessed.

“Perhaps you heard the yelps and screams yesterday, when he thought he’d mastered it,” Tyndal remarked with a smirk.

“Why would the Tree Folk build such an awful weapon?” Dara asked, aghast at the thought.

“Once the kindreds of my people warred on each other nearly as much as yours,” explained Lady Varen.  “There are evil Alkan Alon, just as there are evil men.  And stubborn,” she added.  “We’ve matured, since then, and put aside such horrible tools.  But if you have need of them – and against the might of the gurvani, you do – then you should employ them.”

“Only if we can manage to do so without nearly slaying the servants by accident,” Rondal quipped.  “Something Master Minalan has yet to manage.”

“The distortion effect is difficult to manage, on top of the dramatic shift of perspective.  I’m a wizard, not a crow!” he snorted.  “But then I thought I might know someone who has some experience with that shifted perspective, and distorted view.  Someone who has ridden with the birds already.”

“You want me to fly that thing?” Dara asked, incredulously, when she realized what her master was asking.

“Into battle,” nodded Minalan.  “Yes.”

“You would not be in any personal danger,” Lady Varen assured her.  “Indeed, you will likely be miles away from the siege.  Once the Knife is deployed, it may range long distances from the operator.  That’s what makes it such an insidious weapon.”

“It should be a lot like your bilocation with your falcon,” agreed Pentandra.  “The perception effect will be different, but there is nothing to fear.”

Lady Varen ran her hand along the top surface of the Thoughtful Knife.  “You cannot come to harm if the Knife is struck.  Merely hold the control stone, and send your consciousness within, as you do with Frightful, and you can activate the Knife.  Once it is active, learning how to control it should be easy.”

“Should be,” Pentandra snorted.  “Yet Minalan nearly gutted everyone in the castle yesterday.”

“To be honest,” her new master admitted, “I threw up the first time I flew.  The vertigo was horrendous, and the moment I started moving I lost my bearings.  I’ve always had a higher affinity for fire than wind.

“So,” Minalan said, offering her the stone, “are you ready to try this?”

Dara looked from the stone, which was as wide as her palm, to the Thoughtful Knife.  Suddenly it didn’t look as elegant as before to her.  Now it looked . . . sinister.

She swallowed, hard.  “You really think I can do it?”

Minalan shrugged.  “I figured it was worth the attempt.  You already have experience flying.  I can’t honestly say that of anyone else I know.”

“Then . . . I guess I have to,” Dara decided, taking the stone in hand.  “It’s . . . it’s my duty!”

Chapter Four

The Thoughtful Knife

The moment she took the oddly-shaped control stone in hand, Dara felt the inherent invitation it offered her mind.  It was a startling difference from the way her and Frightful’s minds reached out for each other.  As her fingers curled around it, her mind was drawn into the device’s depths; she had to consciously resist to keep from losing herself in it immediately.

“Just relax,” Lady Varen counseled in her soothing voice.  “Let yourself fall into it.  We’ll ensure your body is protected.”

Dara nodded, and followed her instructions.  More quickly than the first time she’d purposefully bilocated, she felt her fingers and toes and the rest of her body slip away from her awareness.  It was replaced with a new set of sensations – more limited, but more efficient.

It was what she imagined putting on a suit of armor and helmet felt like, she supposed.  She even felt more martial, she realized, as she took control of the Thoughtful Knife.

She could see what Master Minalan meant as she oriented herself in her new environment.  If you weren’t used to being not-quite-in-your-body, the experience could make you panic.  There were whole senses that she couldn’t feel while connected to the Knife – smell, for example.  Although she knew her body was breathing normally, in and out, while she was with the Knife she had no sensation of her breath, or any sensation of smell or taste.

That was fine, from Dara’s perspective.  If the Knife was as deadly a weapon as she’d been told, she didn’t want to taste or smell anything.

On the other hand, her sense of balance was far more acute.  As was her sense of position.  The Thoughtful Knife had a complex understanding of where it was – precisely – and it freely communicated that to Dara.  Its vision was also highly acute.  She could “see” in a far greater range with its magical eyes than she could even with Frightful.  Colors were a lot more complex than she could see with her own eyes, and her ability to discern detail was expanded to a breathtaking degree.  She could count the threads in Lady Pentandra’s richly-embroidered mantle, if she wished, and she could see the bleary eyes of her master in exquisite detail.

But it was the desire to move that the Knife projected her most insistently.  The Knife wanted to fly, as far and as fast as it could.  It wasn’t the complex whirl of emotions she received with Frightful.  It was far more basic and simple than that.  It was desire without purpose, she realized.  When Frightful was eager to hunt, it was because she was hungry and wanted to stretch her wings and ultimately be rewarded for her efforts.  The Thoughtful Knife wanted to fly because it was made to want to fly, and for no other reason.

In some ways that made it simple to push, ever-so-slightly, and lift the Knife into the air.  The magic automatically supported that desire, and she felt her perspective shift.  With no real effort she changed her orientation, the point of the magical blade projecting before her perspective like an elongated nose of surpassing hardness and sharpness.  One by one she surveyed the people in the room from her new vantage: Varen, Pentandra, Minalan... and herself.

As always, it was odd seeing her own body through someone else’s eyes.  But this time, she realized, the Knife understood the difference between her and the others.  She held its stone.  She was its master.  Everyone else was just... a potential target.

“Good!” she saw Lady Varen say, encouragingly.  “Now take it out the window, and see what you can do with it.”

“Try not to kill anyone,” Minalan warned her, unnecessarily, as she shifted the point of the device around toward the open window of the tower.  When she saw the sky above the roof of the castle, she allowed the Knife to select the best route to the area she desired to go, and then she allowed it to take her there.

Her body gasped as the Thoughtful Knife launched itself into the sky thrice as fast as Frightful had ever flown.  The sensation of speed was exhilarating, coming without the sensation of wind in her feathers... or the sensation of feathers.  It was pure acceleration, coupled with a feeling of joy that washed across her like a bolt of warm sunshine. Dara had to stop herself from proceeding into the sky indefinitely, propelled by the joyful feeling of speed the Knife gave her.

But more sober thoughts prevailed, thankfully, and when she found herself flying high over Sevendor Castle, she slowed her ascent and turned, just by thinking about it.  There was no resistance or argument in the decision, unlike Frightful, when she was feeling contrary, the Knife merely executed the demand... until she was staring back down at the castle.

It looked so different from this vantage.  She’d seen it from the air before, but Frightful’s eyes didn’t recognize most people or even buildings the same way she did now.  Dara could see every detail of the castle below, when she stretched her perceptions.  She saw plenty of people’s faces as clearly as if she were standing next to them.

She saw the young men practicing drills with blunted spears and wooden swords in the practice yard, while the kitchen building bubbled with activity as cooks and drudges poured in and out.  The armorers were busy patching and repairing their wares, and the stableboys were mucking out their stalls.  The entire place was as busy as an anthill, as the castle prepared for more war.

Dara took a few breaths to get her bearings again, concerned about how fast the Thoughtful Knife could fly... and how good it felt.  With great consciousness she allowed the magical creation to fall gently back toward the ground, as slowly as she could.  When she came even with the topmost point on Master Minalan’s tower, she took a deep breath and began experimenting with the device.

She learned how to control its flight, bank and turn at speeds impossible for a bird to match, and spun a course around the ramparts of the castle until she was comfortable with her control.  Soon she was flying the Knife between the towers of the castle, and by late afternoon she was threading between the merlons of the battlements with precision.

By the time Minalan pulled her out of the trance her body was in, she was proficient in making the Knife do what she wanted it to do.  It was an incredible experience – as amazing, in its way, as flying with Frightful.  But her body was suffering, after more than four hours practicing.  Her hands were shaking as she flew the Knife back to its perch on the workbench and replaced the control stone in its top.

“Well done, Dara!” Minalan murmured, as he saw how neatly she landed the artifact.

“She seems to be naturally Talented,” Lady Varen conceded, pleased.  “She has wit and valor, it seems.  Should she master the Knife, it is possible that it could be employed against a dragon.  If applied with sufficient force and dexterity, there is a possibility that the Knife could be effective against dragon hide.”

The idea startled Dara.  Her?  Fight a dragon?

But it apparently wasn’t up to her.

“Let us hope it can be,” Master Minalan sighed, wearily.  “It may be our only hope.  If I can find some way to transport Dara and myself all the way to Barrowbell in the next few days, we may arrive before the Dead God sends a worm.”

“But Magelord,” Lady Varen said, gently, “I would be happy to transport you and the girl, and any others you need.  As I said, with snowstone proximate, it is a far simpler enchantment.”

“That’s quite noble of you,” Minalan said. Dara wasn’t certain what was meant by “transport”, but considering the tales surrounding the mysterious and powerful Alka Alon, she could imagine what it meant.  “But isn’t that too long a distance?”

The beautiful non-human smiled.  “Magelord, distance matters not.  My kindred have walked this world for thousands of years.  Mighty empires have risen and fallen.  Great cities were built and fell to ruin.  But magic... magic persists.  Wherever the Alka Alon have established a transport point in the past, I can send you.”

That made Master Minalan pause, and consider something.  Although she’d only had a few days’ acquaintance with the Spellmonger, personally, Dara was already starting to recognize when he had an idea.

“Lady Varen,” he finally said, slowly, “just how many of us could you transport?”

“Let’s leave them to their planning,” Pentandra said, suddenly, ushering the three apprentices out of the room.  “They have much to arrange, now.”

“Like what?” Dara asked, absently.  She was still reeling from being back in her own body, and the discussion had quickly devolved into technical language that was outside of her understanding.

“Like figuring out how to move six thousand men and two thousand horses more than a thousand miles in four or five days,” Rondal answered, running his fingers through his hair.  “And us,” he added, with a sigh.  “All of us, it looks like,” he said, glancing at Dara meaningfully.

“I... I’m going into... battle,” Dara repeated in a daze, trying to accept the sudden development.  “Just like my brothers.  And my father.”

“You should go eat supper,” suggested Lady Pentandra, concerned.  “Leave the difficult questions to us.  You take care of yourself.  Using an enchantment as powerful as the Knife for too long will deplete your arcane energies, if you aren’t careful.  Drink as much as you are able.  You’re tissues need some restoration, and you will need plenty of sleep tonight,” she said, patting her shoulder.

Dara realized her tutor was correct – she was famished.  Her stomach was complaining bitterly and her body was weak.  Her mouth was dry, as dry as a dusty road.

“Thank you,” she said, automatically.  “That was... fun,” she decided.  “But it was also tiring.”

“No more lessons, for the time being,” Pentandra announced.  “Until further notice, you’ll practice with the Thoughtful Knife until you become proficient with it.  Now go get some supper in the Great Hall,” she said, kindly.  “You’ve earned it.”

The Great Hall was starting to get crowded at this time of day.  The sun was already setting, and the early diners had filed through and checked themselves with Sir Festaran, the handsome young knight who had come to Sevendor as a prisoner, had advised and even fought for Sevendor through the siege, and was now acting as Sire Cei’s assistant castellan.  He took to his duties with enthusiasm, and he always seemed terribly optimistic.

Dara accepted a mug of weak ale and a trencher from a drudge – a village woman she recalled as Lartrygg, one of the many folk who worked in the busy castle kitchens.  The woman came back a moment later and spooned a heaping pile of vegetables on one side of the stale crust of bread, and then another drudge appeared with a plate of meat – mutton, but well-seasoned and delicious-smelling.

But the appearance of the servant caused Dara to pause, despite her great hunger.  The drudge with the platter of meat was not human.

That, in itself, did not upset Dara.  She had been working with Lady Varen all day, and the exotic beauty and bell-like voice of the Alka Alon was a constant reminder of her non-human nature.

This, however, was not an outrageously beautiful woman with a magical singing voice.  In fact, it looked more like an overgrown badger wearing an apron and a hat.“Thank you!” the creature squeaked, in passable Narasi.  Dara guessed her eyes must have been wide, the way Latrygg responded.

“Oh, you haven’t met Clover, yet,” she realized.  “She and some of her folk have been helping out at the castle, since Master Olmeg brought them into that marshy pit he calls home, now,” she clucked.  “But they’re good workers, when they don’t get hair in everything.  They’re starting to pick up some Narasi.  I don’t ordinarily let them serve, but with half of our potboys out playing soldier we were shorthanded, today.”

“Thank you!” Clover squeaked again, adding a short bow this time.

“That’s about all she says, so far,” Latrygg said with a sympathetic smile.  “But she’s got a good head on her, and she’s ready for service.  As long as she keeps her arm hairs trimmed and her hat on, when she’s serving,” she added, casting a skeptical glance at the paws that held the platter.

Dara didn’t see anything wrong with the length of the hair on the furry brown arm.  But then she wasn’t in charge of the kitchens.

“Let me know if she makes any mistakes, Maid Dara,” Latrygg added.  “We’re still getting them used to proper manners, and I want to know what needs correction.  And no,” she said, rolling her eyes at Dara’s face, “that doesn’t mean a beating.  Master Olmeg is quite particular how we handle his little folk,” she said, fondly.  “He will bear no mistreatment of them.”

“Thank you!” Clover said, a third time.  Dara didn’t think she understood what was being discussed, entirely, and for a moment she had a powerful feeling of sympathy for the Tal Alon girl.  All too often she felt the same sense of confusion over what she was supposed to be doing, and the same lack of understanding of what was really going on.

“No, thank you, Clover!” Dara said in as friendly tone as possible.  “Good luck with your new position!”

“They take a little getting used to,” Gareth said, a moment later, as he slid into the seat on the bench beside her.  He was apparently finished eating, but he still bore a cup of ale.  Dara didn’t let him keep her from eating.  She drew her belt knife and began stabbing at the mutton as hungrily as Frightful devoured a rabbit’s kidney.  “The Tal Alon are a simple folk, but they have near-human intelligence,” he informed her.

“She was nice,” Dara commented around a bite of the hot mutton.  Manners or not, her stomach would not abide any more delay.  “I’m partial to things with fur and feathers, anyway,” she declared, as she swallowed the first delicious bite.  “I’ve seen them from afar, over Farant’s Hold, and I saw a few at the Magic Fair, but that’s the first time I really met one.”

“They’re distant cousins of the Alka Alon – very distant,” Gareth emphasized.  “Legend has it that the Tree Folk bred the River Folk as gardeners, compliant servants one step up from actual beasts.  They don’t use magic – at least, I’ve never heard of any using it – and they live in crappy little communal huts, partially buried.”

“Gareth!  That’s a terrible thing to say!” Dara reproved as juice dripped down her chin.  She brushed it away with her sleeve.

“In this case, it’s literally true,” the mage chuckled.  “They are adept with nightsoil.  Their privies are designed to collect it, and then they mix it with dirt and mulch. They use it to fertilize the gardens they plan all over their homes.  The Tal Alon hate to waste a sunny spot that isn’t planted, so they tend to put berry bushes and herbs everywhere they can smear their rich... pungent... soil.  Once you get over the smell, it’s actually very pretty.  They like growing flowers, too.”

“I think they’re cute!” Dara said, watching Clover follow behind Latrygg with her platter.

“Then you’ll be happy to know that you’ll be seeing a lot more of them,” Gareth assured her.  “Lady Alya favors them for servants, due to their loyalty... and their ability to get into corners to clean, I expect.  Hells, they dust everything their furry little butts swipe up against.  But they have a much better life here in Sevendor than they did last year.  They were running from the goblin invasion when Master Olmeg recruited them,” he said, troubled.

“The goblins hate the Tal Alon, too?” Dara asked, shaking her head.  How could anyone hate something so inoffensive?

“Oh, no, they love the Tal Alon,” he assured her.  Then his tone got dark.  “They love them roasted, boiled, broiled, fried...”

“Gareth!” Dara protested.  “That’s disgusting!  I’m eating!”

“Sorry,” he said, sincerely.  “But that’s why they’re so damn glad to be here.  When your kind is a prized delicacy among the most vicious and bloodthirsty of folk, I’m sure one has an acute appreciation for a decent job and a lot of strong knights and wizards around.  And they do excel at growing vegetables,” he admitted.  “Between their natural talents and Olmeg’s Green Magic, I expect next year’s harvest will dwarf this one.”

“I saw him this morning,” Dara agreed, taking a big swallow of the cool ale.  “He’s going to replant those vacant fields with trees.  Magical trees,” she added, excitedly.

“Weirwood, I know, I helped him arrange for the seedlings,” Gareth bragged.  “That was actually the first place I met you,” he added, his eyes staring at her uncomfortably.

“That’s right,” she acknowledged.  Best change the subject, she decided.  “Oh, I did get one piece of news today: no more lessons for a while.  They have me learning how to use the Thoughtful Knife.”

“You’re getting to use the Knife?” Gareth asked, troubled.  “I thought they’d find a more experienced wizard for that.”  Clearly, Dara saw, Gareth had hoped he’d be selected for using the dangerous weapon.  “No offense, I don’t doubt your ability, but...”

“But maybe a wizard with more than three weeks training would be better?  Those were my thoughts exactly!” she complained.  “But apparently, I have more experience at bilocation than anyone else,” she pointed out.  “And I’m used to flying already.”

“That does make a lot of sense,” Gareth agreed, though he didn’t look entirely convinced.  “Oh, well.  I’m sure they’ll come up with something important for me to do.”

“Master Minalan is not the type to let talents go to waste,” she agreed as she picked up some vegetables with her fingers and shoveled them into her mouth.

“Gods, you’re eating... healthily,” Gareth said, as he watched her.

“I missed luncheon, and I was working with the Knife all day,” she explained, a little self-consciously.  “It takes a lot out of you.”

“Oh, I understand,” he nodded.  “Any kind of intense magic work can make you hungry.  Or sleepy.  Or other things.  Especially if you’re working with irionite.  I just didn’t realize you were doing that kind of work, yet.”

“There’s a war on,” she reflected, as she stared at Sir Festaran, who wore his armor all the time like a proper knight should.  Ready for battle at any moment.  Ready for a violent death, if need be, if duty so dictated.  She tried to imagine such a life.  “We’re all called upon to do things we didn’t think we’d ever do,” she decided.  “We do the best we can.”

It was only a mile or so from the castle to Westwood Hall, but the overcast sky kept the light of the stars and moon from providing any light to walk by.  That left Dara stumbling along the road, alone, after she’d been dismissed from her duties after supper.  She was profoundly tired, and her body ached from hours of inactivity.  Her newly-full stomach protested so much movement, when it wanted to digest, and the road under her tired feet was simply not cooperating with her desire to go home without incident.

It was annoying, stubbing the toe of her boot because she couldn’t see the road, as well-trodden as it was.  Normal girls were preparing for bed at this time of night, she fumed, the fourth time an untimely step nearly made her sprawl face-down on the road.  Normal girls are thinking about boys and clothes and such.  Not crawling home exhausted after a hard day’s work flying around the castle!

It was a pointless rant to no one, in the midst of her weariness, but the long walk home along the dark road gave Dara a few moments to react to her new life.  It was incredibly exciting and interesting, even more so than falconry, but... it was also painfully demanding, she decided, as she forced one foot in front of the other.  Learning magic – and being apprenticed to Master Minalan – was an incredible opportunity, and she’d been assured by both he and Lady Pentandra that she had the wit to learn the craft.

But at the moment, as she tripped again, she wondered if their confidence in her intelligence was misplaced.  How could the girl who was bright enough to plan a secret mountain-climbing expedition to capture a baby falcon be too stupid to remember to grab a torch or lantern for from the castle?

She groaned in exasperation, at her own forgetfulness, and at how uncomfortable she was in her new position.  After a day like this she could see the allure to a simple life of a normal girl: home and hall, chores and... and regular bed-times.  The life of a wizard, she was gathering, was fraught with such hardships.  At least, that’s what Gareth and Banamor often said.

That thought made Dara stop in her tracks.

I really am stupid, she decided.  I’m a wizard!

She’d missed her regular lessons today, it was true.  But that didn’t mean she’d forgotten what she’d learned.  It took her a few moments to compose herself, bringing her breathing under control and making her mind relax into the proper state... but soon she was able to visualize the three runes she needed to do what she wished.  From there it was a simple matter of defining the parameters of the spell, adding a binding rune, and then feed the spell energy...

When she opened her eyes, a tiny white star, no bigger than an acorn but perfectly round, hovered in front of her face.  Dara gasped, despite herself.  It worked!  She’d created a magelight, all by herself.  For the first time she’d used magic to do something other than fly around or demonstrate her understanding.  She’d conjured a magelight, enough light for her to see by – well, at least see the ground well enough not to trip.  The arcane glow from the tiny white sphere illuminated a small patch below it for a few feet, but no more.

Still, she reasoned, as she directed it with her finger to light the way ahead, it was a professional victory, the mark of a real wizard.  And it was terribly useful, even if the tiny light she’d managed was pretty feeble, compared to the ones Master Minalan and the other magi used.  No flint and iron, no candle, no torch – just her.  And light.

She experimented with it as she walked, her weariness momentarily forgotten.  It was fun, directing the magelight around like her own personal star.  Sending the light ahead, or higher or lower, or even sending it to scare a racquiel in the bushes, preoccupied her so much that it wasn’t until she approached the guard at the bridge over the Chasm that she remembered how tired she was.

“By the Flame, I was wondering what that was!” swore her cousin, Larvan, when he recognized her.  He was one of her older cousins, a good Westwoodman who ordinarily worked forestry duty deep in the wood.  He had somehow pulled night watch.  Larvan let the string of her bow relax, and Dara realized just how close she’d come to being shot by him.  “What is that?”

“A magelight,” she answered, simply, as the feeling of fright receded.  “A wizard’s torch, you could say.”  She looked at her cousin guiltily, as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t.  “It was dark,” she explained, unnecessarily, as she ended the spell – and plunged them both into gloomy darkness.

“Huh,” her cousin grunted, replacing his arrow in its quiver at his hip.  “I suppose we should be used to that sort of thing in the Vale, now,” he said, nodding toward the green glow of Master Minalan’s magelight over the castle.  It was far larger than the tiny one she’d conjured, and she’d yet to master colors, yet.  But Larvan was correct.  Working so deeply in the forest, he rarely went to Sevendor Village, and he was still getting used to being ruled by a magelord, surrounded by wizards, and actually being related to one.  “You might warn a body, if you’re going to conjure strange lights in the wood. Folk are jumpy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she agreed, seriously, as she passed over the rickety rope bridge that led to her home.  She briefly cursed herself for not using magesight, a way of enchanting your eyes so that they could see beyond darkness.

Despite Larvan’s warning, Dara was still extremely pleased with herself for managing the magelight without direction or oversight.  She really was learning magic, she realized!  She was a wizard – or would be, someday – and the promise of that excited her tired mind.  She could use magic, real magic, other than her mastery of beasts and birds.  Just like a real wizard did.

Of course, she was still learning what that actually implied.  Much of what she’d expected magic to be was laughably incorrect, the result of folk tales and legends of the half-remembered Magocracy, she was learning.  But even as Dara’s understanding of the wizard’s profession was being corrected by her training, her appreciation for what magic could really do was growing.

As tired as she was, once she’d dragged herself to bed she couldn’t sleep.  Between the echoes of her time with the Thoughtful Knife keeping her mind a-whirl, and her obsessing on her successful magelight, she was just too keyed up.  She practiced making magelights, instead, until a tiny constellation of three hovered over her bed.

Her dreams that night were vivid, but chaotic.  She returned to the castle the next morning bleary-eyed and sleepy... but no less eager for another day of practice on the Knife.

But something had changed around the castle, she noted, before she’d even gotten through the outer bailey.  The mood of the folk she encountered had shifted.  The sense of uneasy patience everyone at Sevendor Castle was feeling the last few days was missing, she realized.  In its place was a feeling of grim relief.  Everyone from the guards at the gates to the drudges running errands moved with new purpose, Dara realized.  She wondered what had happened to cause it.

She didn’t find out until she arrived at the tower.  Master Minalan and her fellow apprentices were missing, but Lady Pentandra was there to tutor her in using the Thoughtful Knife.  Before they got started, Dara felt compelled to ask.

“What happened last night?” she asked, simply.

Lady Pentandra looked troubled.  “Minalan came to some decisions.  He’s investigating his options, now, with the Alka Alon, but he has an idea.  And he has decided a course of action.  It hasn’t been announced yet, but he has committed to providing troops to the defense of Cambrian Castle, assuming he can get us there.”

That caught Dara’s attention.  “’Us’?  You’re going?”

“’Us.’” Lady Pentandra nodded.  “Including me.  And including you.”

“Me?” Dara asked, her eyes wide.

“You.  Me.  Minalan.  Tyndal.  Rondal.  Gareth.  And as many others as can be transported.  The situation is dire, and if the gurvani cross the river into the heart of Gilmora, hundreds of thousands will be in danger,” she said, sadly.  “The King has called upon his Magical Corps for aid.  And your master has called upon you to serve.  So you will be going to Gilmora, to Castle Cambrian, and fight the goblins.  As will I.”

It was the first time someone had come out and stated it to her.  Though softly delivered, the pronouncement shook Dara’s world.  She was going to war.

To fight.

The thought terrified her, now that it was real.  She’d always known in the back of her mind that her experience with the Thoughtful Knife might lead to such deadly adventure, but being told that she was, indeed, going to Gilmora was different.

She could die.

She would be expected to kill.

Dara felt sick to her stomach.

“W-why are you going?” she asked Lady Pentandra, as her emotions warred with themselves inside her.  “You aren’t a warmage!”

“Not officially,” Lady Pentandra conceded.  “I’m a thaumaturge with a fairly exotic specialty.  Nevertheless, I am a High Mage – I have a witchstone, for which I swore an oath.  The same oath you swore when you won yours at the Magic Fair,” she reminded Dara.  “With that power comes responsibility . . . and duty.  Minalan and I set it up that way, for very good reasons.  Magic should serve mankind, we believe, in defense as well as in life.

“Now, that being said,” she continued, with a sigh, “just because I’m not a warmage doesn’t mean I don’t know how to use magic in an offensive manner.  I come from an old Imperial family of magi in Remere, and I knew a dozen deadly spells before I ever went to the Academy.  Some I will teach to you,” she added, with a smirk.  “A girl should always know a couple of nasty spells, for emergencies.

“But as to my position, I will be leading the Magical Corps in a support role.  I will be assisting and coordinating the rest of the wizards in battle,” she explained.

“So where am I to be?” Dara asked, her head in a whirl.

“Likely, near to me,” Pentandra assured.  “Far to the rear of the battle, among many strong knights to protect us from harm while we conjure.  Not all warmagi go charging into battle, mageblades flashing.  In fact, some of the best use their skills at a safe distance from actual violence.  In our case, we’ll be supporting those on the lines as best we can: with scrying out enemy positions, warding our forces from enemy magic, and employing spells to help out our brave soldiers.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Dara said, hesitantly.

“It’s still war!” Pentandra snapped.  She continued, a little more softly.  “I’d never seen real war, until I came to Boval Vale,” she confessed.  “My ideas of it were brave knights charging into battle, banners flying from every lance.

“What I saw at Boval Castle was... brutal.  Far more brutal than the siege you just experienced,” she added, seeing Dara’s expression.  “That was a mere skirmish, compared to Boval Vale.  Real war is chaos, unchained.  It makes beasts of good men and villains of the rest.  It is the province of Duin the Destroyer, god of war, and his fickle mistress Ifnia, goddess of fortune.  Bad things happen in war.  But by Ishi I will do my best to protect you,” she vowed, returning her dark eyes to Dara.

Dara swallowed, hard.  “Is my family to go, too?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lady Pentandra considered.  “While the exact disposition of troops, outside of the Magic Corps, has not been decided, it is most likely that Minalan will want his most loyal troops beside him.  He holds your family in high esteem, and is impressed with their valor during the war.”

“So... I am going into battle.  With my brothers,” she summarized, unsure of how she felt about that.  She’d always been jealous of the adventurous nature of their militia training, and relieved she did not have to endure the demands of it.  But now that she was suddenly included, a confusing mixture of thrill and despair enveloped her.  “Am I to bring Frightful?”

“If you can control her, she’d likely prove useful,” Pentandra nodded.  “Nor will we send you into battle completely unprepared – I’ve requested the castle armorer find suitable gear for you.  And you will be quartered with the Magical Corps.  Hopefully, before we depart – deploy,” she corrected, using the precise military term, “I’ll have time to teach you a few simple but useful spells.

“In the meantime, let’s begin your practice.  I had Tyndal up at dawn, running around the valley setting up rotten pumpkins in particular spots.  Today I want you to practice flying, spotting, and destroying those pumpkins with the Thoughtful Knife,” she said, handing the control stone to Dara.

She took it with trembling fingers.  Then she took a deep breath.

I’m a wizard, she reminded herself.  This is wizard stuff.  I can do this.

She felt the seductive pull from the Knife’s control stone, and once she was sitting comfortably she allowed it to overtake her mind.  In moments, she was easing the sharp magical blade through the tower window and out over Sevendor Vale.  The slender artifact flew through the autumn breeze effortlessly and noiselessly, as smoothly as a falcon a-wing.

But inside the tower, her hands were still shaking.

Chapter Five

Armed And Armored

“You want my Dara to go to battle?” Yeoman Kamen, her father, asked his liege lord incredulously.  “Are things really that desperate that we are arming little girls, now?” he demanded.

Dara winced.  She knew Master Minalan was a kind lord, but few commoners got away with taking that kind of tone with the nobility.  In some domains, she knew, such disrespect could mean a quick trip to the stocks or worse.

“It is not that things are that desperate, Kamen,” Minalan explained, carefully.  “It is that she has some special abilities that could prove vital to the coming battle.”

“And no one else can do these things?”

“No,” Minalan said, shaking his head.  “Not the way she can.  At least, I haven’t found anyone better.  I assure you she will be in the most protected place in the battle,” he promised.  “I will have her guarded by my best men.”

“Yes, you will,” Kamen assured his master, evenly.  “For your best men are Westwoodmen, and we shall be there, protecting her.  Or she will not go,” he said, firmly.

The Magelord looked troubled for a moment, and Dara wondered if her father had pushed his master too far.  She was Minalan’s apprentice, after all, and he now had legal responsibility for her now.  Only she’d been Kamen’s daughter for thirteen years, and to his eye that came first.  Dara tensed for a confrontation.

Thankfully, Master Minalan saw the justice of the proposal, and eventually nodded.

“I was hoping to use your family’s skills as woodsmen in Gilmora, but in truth rangers work best in lands they’re familiar with,” he sighed.  “I have yet to assign duties to the expedition, but I will ensure that the Westwood be used to guard the Magical Corps reserves.  That might be more trouble than battle,” he added, wryly.  “I’ve put out a call for warmagi, footwizards, and other magi to aid us, with witchstones as payment for superior service.  You’ll need to guard and support them all, and that might be more chaotic than you suspect.”

Her father shrugged.  “I can contend with wizards.”

Minalan chuckled at some private joke.  “So I see!  Lady Pentandra will have command over them, so I doubt they’ll get too rowdy.  But I do need someone I can trust, there.  I’ll consider it, seriously,” he promised, rising from the bench.  “Thank you for your continued service.  I will not forget the Westwood, when I have an opportunity.”

Her father nodded and gave a short bow as he rose.  Dara could tell he still wasn’t happy about the prospect of seeing his daughter conscripted into military service, but if he was there to watch over her, he could hardly shirk his duty to the Magelord.  His words echoed her thoughts as soon as they were outside of the castle.

“I’m not fond of this notion, Dara,” he said in a quiet but resigned voice.  “War is dangerous.  People die,” he emphasized.

“I know, Father,” she said, formally.  “When you and my brothers and cousins and uncles all went off to guard Caolan’s Pass, I knew that you could die.  When you faced down the men from the castle at the bridge, I knew you could die.”

“That’s different,” he grunted.  “Your brothers and I were trained in arms.”

“And I am trained in magic,” she replied, defiantly, though she knew her training at this point was nominal, at best.  That wasn’t the point!  “Master Minalan needs me,” she emphasized.

“So I have heard,” her father sighed, gloomily.  “When a man is forced to march to war, he may have to go with his sons.  But he assumes his daughters will be safe behind him.”

“Where they can worry themselves into illness, waiting for their kin to return home,” Dara said, evenly.  “Or are slaughtered by foes when their men leave them unprotected.”

“Aye, I am aware of all the horrible things that come with war.  I am not eager for you to see them.  But at least you’ll be where I can keep an eye on you,” he considered.  “The Flame protect us, but that’s a relief, somehow.  You in battle is bad enough to imagine, but if I had to depend upon others to watch over you...”

“Father, I am not a child anymore,” she said, indignantly.  Did he not think she could take care of herself?

“Nor are you a woman, yet,” he pointed out.  “Dara, do you not realize that we may all be marching to our deaths?”

“No,” she confessed.  “Because I am not a woman yet, so this is all a little exciting to me.  I’m to report to the castle armorer,” she added, proudly.

“That’s a relief, as well,” Kamen nodded.  “I’ll have a campaign bag packed for you,” he decided.  “I’ll have one of the girls get it ready, and have one of the lads check it over.  But Dara,” he said, with one final sigh, “why must they take you?”

“I’m a ... a secret weapon,” she told him, not certain what she was and wasn’t supposed to speak of.  “Because I can do Brown Magic, Master Minalan has found a useful place for me.”

“I did not think there as a useful place for a girl on the battlefield,” Kamen reflected.  “Particularly one like you.”

“I will do my best to inflict chaos only on the foe,” she said, with mock seriousness.

Kamen sighed, his eyes searching his daughter’s face.  “Then our victory is assured,” he joked.  “By the Flame, no force could withstand that.”

Dara was anxious – for her father, she realized.  It wasn’t that she wasn’t scared of death, herself – she didn’t want to die, that was certain.  But the idea of being slain and leaving her poor father behind to grieve, after losing her mother... it was almost more than she could bear.

She practiced with renewed determination that day, sending the Knife zooming across the Vale and through the growing town of Sevendor as she “slew” the half-rotten produce Pentandra had set up.  All around the valley folk were running to prepare – either for the harvest or for the deployment – as she zoomed the Knife over their heads.  Dara was pleased when she sliced the tops off nine moldy apples in a row with the edge of the Knife’s wing, then slammed through a gloriously rotten pumpkin perched on a fencepost so hard the gourd exploded.

Dara’s mastery of the Knife grew by the hour.  It helped that the spells that controlled it were so brilliantly sophisticated.  Flying soon became effortless, and she began automatically reacting to things she was only barely aware that the Knife was communicating to her.  That allowed her to focus on the deadly business of seeking out her targets and destroying them.

Though the Knife was shaped like a gigantic arrowhead, the effect of its impact was more akin to being hit by an axe... flung by a cyclone.  When Dara experimented with speed, she overshot the far north ridge of the Vale and found herself in strange territory.  When she tried to see how high she could fly, she gained altitude at a rate that the strongest bird in the world could not hope to match.

Her finest moment, she had to admit to herself, was late in that second full day of practice... when she encountered Tyndal and Rondal riding back from the Diketower.  She could not help herself.  Despite her new acquaintance with her senior apprentices, she felt compelled to tease them, somehow.  When she spied the overfull ditch in the center of the road, swollen with autumnal rain, she knew what she had to do.

She drove the Knife far slower than usual, almost stalking the boys from behind.  When she was reasonably certain of her course, she told the Knife to speed up until its body was skipping boisterously across the top of the ditch, dipping a razor-sharp wing into the wet muck... and showering the boys with the spray.

She heard some choice cursing through the Knife as the two apprentice warmagi drew their wands and blasted angrily away at projectile as it retreated back to the castle.

Pentandra called for a break, when she reported what she’d done... and for the first time in her life, an adult poured wine for her.  And then added an equal measure of water.

“Well done, Dara!” the Remeran wizard praised, as she put away the knife after cleaning the pumpkin residue off with a cloth.  “That is the kind of skill that will make you successful in battle.  I hope,” she added.  An extremely anxious look flashed across her face before she hid it again.

“What?” demanded Dara, as the first rich taste of wine she’d enjoyed in her life entertained her tongue.  Even watered, it was an experience.  “What happened?”

Pentandra looked embarrassed for having allowed her inner thoughts to be guessed.

“The Emissaries from the Alka Alon may have figured out a way to transport our relief force... magically,” Pentandra reported, when she realized Dara was not going to relent in her curiosity.  “In addition to the Thoughtful Knife, the Alka Alon sent us more treasures, including one that allows magi to combine their energies with great ease.  With that kind of power, the Alka Alon think we can bring the armies to Gilmora in the blink of an eye.”

“Is that even possible?” Dara snorted, skeptically.

“The Alka Alon once ruled this land,” Pentandra explained.  “At the height of their civilization they could transport themselves magically, between certain spots.  They call it their Ways.  There is some truly elegant thaumaturgy underlying the songspell, but a technical discussion will have to wait until you are better equipped to understand it,” she said, kindly.  “But the upshot is that the three Alka Alon Emissaries think that they can, with our help, transport thousands of our warriors through the Ways, all the way to Gilmora.  A journey of a thousand miles in an instant,” she snapped.

Dara shook her head.  “That seems impossible!”

“I’m a thaumaturge, and I think it seems impossible,” Pentandra said, shaking her head in wonder.  “It is said that the Alka Alon are the masters of magic on Callidore.  Such spells as the Ways support that contention.  But if we are to do this feat, then we will need every last bit of arcane power we can muster.  You’re clearly proficient with the Knife.  Minalan asked me to tutor you in the use of your witchstone,” Pentandra said, as she put the Thoughtful Knife back in its cask and took out a much smaller box.

Dara caught her breath as she recognized it.  She’d won the thing at the Magic Fair.  Some said she’d not won fairly; she’d used her control of Frightful to avoid all the clever obstacles that Master Minalan and his colleagues had contrived to challenge hundreds of wizards in the competition, and win the prize.  Of course, she recalled, that had also nearly started a riot among those who felt she’d cheated.

Master Minalan had compromised by taking her as apprentice and granting her one of the least powerful shards of irionite in his treasury.  The tiny, milky stone in the box was unimpressive to the eye, but once someone with magical Talent took it in hand it became something more.

Irionite was an amber, she’d learned from Lady Pentandra’s lectures, not a mineral.  It was prized among the Alka Alon for its properties.  For some reason no human understood, the substance provided profound amounts of arcane power to a wizard, far more than they could manifest on their own.

The tiny shards of amber, called witchstones, were therefore more valuable than gold.  A hundred times more valuable.  Wars had been fought over – and by – those wizards who’d possessed it, including many of the Archmagi of old.  For centuries its use by magi had been proscribed by the Censorate of Magic, and punished by imprisonment or death.  But the goblin invasion and the bold actions of Master Minalan had changed all that last year.

Now the Censors were expelled from the new kingdom, and magi were being armed with witchstones.  Minalan had instituted an oath governing their use, but for the first time in four hundred years wizards were free to use all the tools at their disposal again.

To fight the goblins.

“Go ahead and make a connection to it,” Pentandra advised as Dara took the tiny stone out of its box.  Dara nodded and extended her feelings, until she could feel the power of the witchstone flow through her.  She’d only been in contact with it a few times before, during the earliest days of her instruction, when Tyndal and Rondal had helped her acclimatize her mind to the feeling.  Each time she figured she was prepared for the onslaught of energy.  Each time she was mistaken.

It was like what she imagined riding a galloping wild horse would be like.  At a certain point she could only hang on and let the power carry her.  But when that control came, Pentandra smiled.  “Try something simple,” she suggested.  “Get a feel for its capacities.”

Dara nodded and closed her eyes, visualizing the same runes she’d used last night, only providing the spell with a lot more power.  A magelight appeared, thrice the size and ten times brighter than the one she’d conjured the night before.

Lady Pentandra gasped and shielded her eyes from the sudden glare.  “Good, good,” she murmured.  “Now extinguish that, and I’ll teach you a few basic spells.  They are, technically, above your level of mastery, but well within your grasp.  And they should all prove useful on the battlefield,” she added.

The next few hours were spent back in lessons, but instead of learning boring runes by rote Dara was instructed in how to build spells from those things she’d already learned.  By the time the supper bell rang downstairs in the Great Hall, Dara had learned how to produce a cloud of sparks, how to make herself less noticeable, and how to cast a simple glyph to inspire terror in a foe.  Then she learned some basic offensive spells: from how to construct a simple arcane bolt to a spell that left its victim vomiting and writhing on the floor with a single touch.

“That one can be particularly useful,” the older wizard advised, “especially in a military camp where some soldiers don’t know their manners.  But with your family around, I think you’ll be safe from that sort of attention.  In fact, if you get that sort of unwanted attention, let me know, before your kin... I have ways of dealing with that,” she said, knowingly.

“Is Dara finished with her lessons?” a voice from the doorway asked.  It was Alya, Lady of Sevendor, Minalan’s wife.  Dara was incredibly fond of the pretty Wilderlands woman who had become their ruler when she’d married the Spellmonger.  For once, Dara noted, she wasn’t carrying their baby, Minalyan, around in her arms.  “Min asked me to make sure she was ready for Gilmora.  She still needs to be fitted for armor,” she reminded Pentandra.

“Yes, we’re about done here,” she admitted.  “Dara, why don’t you hang on to your stone for a while?  Practice those things I’ve taught you until you can do them almost automatically.”

As Lady Alya led Dara away, she asked about the lessons.  “What kinds of things does she have you learning?”

“Oh, basic stuff, my lady,” Dara reported.  “You must know all about that, by now.”

“Actually, I only met Minalan about a year and a half ago,” reminded Lady Alya in her Wilderlands brogue.  “I’m quite new at all of this magic, myself.  I only have the vaguest idea about what it is you folk do.  Less than you do.  I’m likely the most ignorant wizard’s wife in the kingdom.”

“Well, today she taught me how to lay a man low with a touch,” Dara said, recalling her last lesson.  “He’ll vomit.  And possibly soil himself.”

“Ah!  Minalan calls it the Gutbuster spell.  Yes, I’ve seen that one in action – very useful, if you know what you’re doing,” she said, smiling at some hidden thought.  “But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my associations with wizards,” she said, leading Dara out a side door of the castle and towards the busy armory, “it’s that magic can fail you at the worst possible times.  That’s why, on our honeymoon, I had this made,” she said, taking a sheathed dagger out of her cloak.

“Is it magical?” Dara asked, as Lady Alya unsheathed it.

“No,” Alya said.  “And that’s the point.  Magic takes concentration, and war is about the most chaotic environment you could imagine.  So... sometimes you just have to stab someone the old-fashioned way,” she said, returning the plain steel blade to its scabbard.  “Take it as a loan,” she said, thrusting it in Dara’s hands.  “Trygg willing, you’ll never have to use it.  But better a real dagger than a cheap belt knife in your hand, when you’re too upset to throw spells.”

“Thank you!’ Dara said, accepting the blade.  “I have no idea how to use it properly,” she confessed.

“Neither do I,” Alya agreed.  “But until you do, just keep sticking the sharp end in their face until they go away,” she counseled.

Sir Roncil, a Wilderlord who had accompanied the Bovali settlers to Sevendor, was acting as the castle’s armorer, for the moment.  The knight oversaw the great storeroom in the secondary tower of the castle, which was as busy as an anthill as the domain dealt with the end of one war and the beginning of another.  He was angrily berating one of his subordinates over how to stack helmets when he looked up and saw them.

The dour knight’s expression changed from a scowl to a smile when he saw Lady Alya, and the tone in his voice shifted from frustrated anger to pleasant familiarity.

“I need to get this young lady outfitted for the expedition, Sir Roncil,” Alya began, her Wilderlands brogue getting thicker as she addressed her countryman.  “Minalan mentioned it to you, I believe?  He thought you might have something in her size.”

“Oh, aye,” the knight assured her.  “We’ve a gracious plenty in stock, right now, thanks to the Warbird’s defeat.  Plenty of the prisoners could not afford even token ransoms, and had to leave behind their arms and armor as collateral, or forfeit altogether.  Aye, I’ve got something that will work for this lass,” he said, looking Dara up and down.

Moments later he and Alya were lowering a thick leather jerkin, boiled and waxed to hardness, over her head.  It smelled of sweat and leather and oil and other things Dara didn’t even want to think about, remnants of its last owner.

“That should work,” Sir Roncil approved, as the weight of the armor settled on Dara’s shoulders and Alya began fastening the straps on the sides.  “Luckily you’re still more boy-shaped than girl-shaped, else it might be tight in places.  But that was a young lordling from Fleria’s first armor, so it should be adequate protection.”

“How does it feel?” Lady Alya asked, concerned.

“It’s heavy,” Dara admitted.  “But it feels strong.”

“It’s thick enough to stop one of those little darts the scrugs use,” Roncil said, giving the back of the armor a heavy slap.  “There’s a chainmail skirt that will protect you down to the knees.  Not like being fitted for a ball gown, is it?” he joked, feebly.

“I’ve never been fitted for a ball gown,” snorted Dara.

“What did you have in mind for a helm?” Alya asked, politely.

“The piece came with a full great helm – what these Riverlords insist on wearing for jousting,” he said, contemptuously.  Dara knew the Wilderlords were magnificent horsemen, but the knights from the far northwestern country disdained the complicated armor and helmets the more “civilized” local Riverlords used in tournaments and war.  “But I’d recommend just a simple steel pot or a stiff leather,” he counseled.  “The scrugs are far more like to smash a knee than a skull.”

“She’s a lot closer in height to them than you are,” Lady Alya pointed out.  “We’ll go with steel, please.  Strong, but not too heavy.”

Sir Roncil searched the storeroom until he produced a helmet fitting Alya’s description: a simple round helmet of burnished steel, with a reinforced brim.  It had leather cheek-guards that could be removed, and a supple but sturdy chainmail mantle hung from the back to protect her neck.  It smelled just as odd as the armor, as the heavy weight settled over her crown.  Lady Alya fastened the chin strap and then stepped back to survey the result.

“Not exactly the picture of a ferocious warrior,” she decided, “but good protection.”

“Do you need a sword?” Roncil asked, suddenly.

“I wouldn’t know how to use one,” Dara said.  “I’ve borrowed a dagger.”

“Can you shoot?”

“I’m a Westwoodman!” Dara snorted, indignantly.  All children in the Westwood learned how to use a bow, boys and girls.  Sir Roncil chuckled, and returned to her a moment later with a short bow and a quiver of arrows.  The arrow heads weren’t the normal hunting points she was used to.  They were all razor sharp, and designed to inflict damage.

“Hopefully they will never get close enough for you to use it, but if they do, don’t hesitate,” he said, as he strapped the quiver around her waist.

Dara felt... encased.  She’d never worn anything this heavy before, and the weight of the helmet was already starting to make her neck ache.  She took a hesitant step and realized that it would require some effort.  How could soldiers bear this?

Through practice and training, she realized.  A lot of practice, and a lot of training.  Training she didn’t have.  Even the bow in her hand felt odd.  She felt entirely inadequate for the role she was being thrust into, but it couldn’t be helped.

“Wear it as much as possible,” Roncil advised, seeing her discomfort, “and you’ll get used to it soon enough.   Sleep in it, if you can.  When you’re in the field, you never know when you’re going to be attacked.  The goblins are nocturnal,” he reminded her.

Lady Alya was kind enough to escort her back to the Great Hall, where Sire Cei was busy with a knot of subordinates determining the composition of the expedition on sheets of parchment.  She was surprised when Sir Festaran, of all people, chose to recognize her... and embarrassed, when she realized what she was wearing.

“So, it’s true!” the handsome young knight said as he surveyed her in her new armor.  “You’re coming with us to Gilmora, Maid Dara!”

“That’s what I understand,” she said, glumly.  “Hence my new finery,” she said, indicating her armor.

“You wear it well, my lady,” Sir Festaran chuckled.  “In truth, I was concerned when I heard that the Magelord included you in his plans, but he knows best,” he said, with confidence.  “You’ll get used to your new raiment soon enough.”

“It’s so heavy!” she complained, wiggling her head around to demonstrate the weight of the new helmet.

“Oh, it’s only about seventeen pounds, ten ounces, and the helm is only around five pounds six ounces,” he dismissed.  Sir Festaran was technically a knight mage, she remembered, a magical sport whose limited Talent had emerged the night of the Snowstone spell.  His one demonstrable magical ability was to estimate things with uncanny accuracy.  “My armor is twenty-two pounds nine ounces, and the helmet I wear is seven and a half pounds!”  To reinforce the point, he thumped his own chest.  The thick rings of chainmail he wore jingled, but the padding underneath absorbed the force of the blow.

Dara reflected that such a sportish Talent might prove annoying.

“But you’ll be with the Magic Corps, so I doubt you’ll even need armor,” he pointed out.  “The Magical Corps is always in the most heavily defended area.  And since this is the Spellmonger’s expedition, I imagine you will have plenty of company.  From what I understand, he has tried to recruit as many of the stray wizards lingering around Sevendor as he can for the effort, with witchstones or with none.”

“From what I understand, we’re going to need them for the transport spell,” Dara informed him, pleased she could exchange intelligence for once, instead of begging for it.  “Moving that many people magically will take tremendous energy.  And the assistance of the Tree Folk.  Is this place really that important?” she asked, hesitantly.

Instead of a rebuke for her question, Sir Festaran answered her thoughtfully.  “It’s the last well-defended strategic point in Gilmora,” he told her, seriously.  “If the goblins make it past Castle Cambrian, there’s nothing to stop them from spreading out and making for Barrowbell cross-country.  And destroying everything in their path.”

“What’s Barrowbell?”

“An important city in Gilmora, one that deals with the bulk of the cotton trade.  There are thousands of people there with not much more than a simple wall to protect them.  And if the goblins capture Barrowbell, they will have captured the heart of Gilmora... and be within striking range of the rest of the duchy,” he explained.

“I guess that does make it important,” she sighed.

“Important enough for all of... this,” Festaran said, gesturing to the busy tables in the Great Hall where captains huddled around maps and lists of equipment and rosters of warriors.  “Trygg’s grace, the Magelord is even hiring his former foes to go.  Sire Gimbal – sorry, Sir Gimbal,” he emphasized with a grin – the Warbird of West Fleria had lost his grander title with his lands – “and his household have... volunteered to serve.”

Dara looked amazed.  “He can do that?”

“The Spellmonger has been a Marshal of both Castal and Alshar since before he was ennobled.  That’s a special military official of the court empowered to defend the realm.  As a marshal he has the right to call on the warriors of the duchy in the name of the Duke.  And when he made this declaration to Baron Vulric of East Fleria, his excellency saw fit to send us no less venerable a personage then his own brother!” he said, with a grim chuckle.

Dara nodded, understanding the sentiment.  Few of his former vassals spoke well of Sir Gimbal.  The Warbird of West Fleria, a baron in all but name, had supported the wicked Sir Erantal when he’d been tenant lord of Sevendor and nearly ruined the domain with neglect.  Then he’d compounded the problem by laying siege to Sevendor while the Magelord was engaged elsewhere.

That had put her own family into danger, which earned Sir Gimbal no sympathy from her.  It had been a happy day for the entire region when the Magelord had forced his surrender after capturing his undefended lands.  Dara realized that the Warbird’s reign had been just as hard for the nobles as the common folk, from Sir Festaran’s sincere expressions.

“Sir Fes!” someone called from the knot of knights clustered around Sire Cei, as he apportioned troops.  “How much biscuit to feed seven thousand men for six days?”

The young knight groaned.  “They keep asking me stuff like that – I’d better get back to work.  I’ll see you at muster, tomorrow!”

“Tomorrow?” Dara asked, confused.

“Haven’t you heard?” Sir Festaran asked in surprise.  “Word came a few moments ago.  The Spellmonger has decided that we’re ready to depart.  We’re to assemble in the outer bailey at dawn, tomorrow, prepared for battle.  Everyone,” he emphasized, looking at her meaningfully.

Dara walked all the way back to the Westwood in a daze, barely feeling the armor that clanked and groaned with every step.  This would be her last night in a real bed, she realized.

It might be the last night she slept... ever.

Chapter Six

Through The Ways

Dara awoke before dawn the next morning, having stayed up late packing her kit after a final, somber dinner with her family around the Flame.  Her brother Kyre had helped her pack, advising her what to take – and what not to take – into the field.  As much as she’d discarded, her leather pack was bulging with gear, and it weighed heavily on her back.  With the armor, helmet, bow and quiver she felt horribly encumbered... and that was before she’d added Frightful.

Frightful was hooded and Dara had wrapped her jesses around her wrist tightly, but it still required her to maintain a connection to the falcon to keep her calm in the tumult of the morning.  The entire expedition from the Westwood assembled in the yard, more than a dozen armored fighting men... and one very anxious girl.  Dara was starting to get used to the clamor of that much leather and steel, but Frightful was not; she seemed to startle at every loud noise.

Her father gave an inspiring and rousing speech to them around the Flame about the pride he had in the honor of the Westwood, or something like that, but Dara barely paid attention until her cousin Larvan, the designated bannerman for the company, called the line to attention.  Dara was surprised to find herself being led to the front, but realized that her shorter legs would soon get left behind if she was at the end of the line.  When her cousin called the order to march, Dara’s legs seemed to move without her conscious command.

Ash and cinders, this is really happening! she swore to herself.  I’m going to war!

The weight of her armor and gear made her start to sweat before they’d even left the Westwood.  She’d wished she’d secured her hair better under her helmet, and hoped there would be an opportunity to fix it before they departed.  By the time the outer gate of the castle came into view, her feet were already starting to go numb in her boots and her shoulders were starting to ache.

Thankfully, on the other side of the outer wood there were horses awaiting them.  Dara had only ridden a beast a few times, and never a real horse, and she eyed the big animals thoughtfully.

“Culled from the spoils of battle,” her brother Kyre told her, proudly, as he stroked the nose of the big rouncey he would ride.  “We took so many ransoms and captured so many mercenary horses that the stables are overfull.  Don’t worry,” he chuckled, “you’re a little scrawny for a warhorse.  I picked out a big pony for you.  It used to be a mercenary’s packhorse.  She should be gentle,” he encouraged.

Dara examined the beast carefully, clucking to it and petting its nose to introduce herself before she inspected the hooves and teeth of the mare.  It seemed sound and sturdy, and her eyes were alert.

“Does she have a name?” she asked, curious.

“Only the one you give her,” Kyre nodded.  “She was one of a string of pack animals.  Well-treated, but mercenaries aren’t the sort to get personal with their beasts.”

“She’s hardly a destrier, but then you’d not know what to do with one.  I suppose she’s a sturdy one,” her father, Kamen, said, looking at the mare’s well-muscled flanks critically.   “She’s a right doughty beast.”

“Doughty!” Dara said, suddenly.  “That’s what I’ll call her!”  She briefly reached out her consciousness to the animal, as she did with Frightful, and introduced herself.  The pony didn't seem to have any objections to her.

“Doughty she might be,” her father nodded, “but if you expect to ride more than an hour, you might want to check your saddle.  Who fastened this?” he demanded, to no one in particular, as he tugged at a strap.  “Some ham-handed goblin who wants to see my daughter trampled?”

“It was me,” Kyre said, sullenly.  He received the benefit of a long and detailed lecture about proper attention to his equipment, then, delivered with both the insistence of a military commander and the concerns of a father.  Dara blushed at the dressing-down, and was surprised to see her brother accept it as graciously as he did.  He was blushing as well.

Things were different, Dara noted.  There was a sense of urgency and seriousness in the early morning air that was nearly excitement.  Excitement tinged with dread.

The Westwoodmen met other troops marching up from Sevendor Town and the camps on the Commons, all coming together at once on the road.  That took some organization, in the outer bailey, as the various troops were gathered into three separate units, all in a line, prepared to plunge into battle.

Most of the soldiers assembled were cracking nervous jokes with wry humor about that, unaware or uncomprehending of what was about to happen.  But Dara had an inkling, or at least a better idea, and she found herself more anxious about the magical transport than she was the battle on the other side.  She followed her kinsmen as they were told off to the Third Group, which contained much of the supplies and the Magical Corps.  Master Minalan had been true to his word: her family would be in charge of guarding her.

She stood there for ten minutes or more, keeping Frightful quiet and getting to know Doughty, when a young page ran down the line – calling her name.

“Dara of Westwood!  Dara of Westwood!” the boy bellowed, over and over, as he ran.

“I’m Dara!” she replied, as soon as she realized he was calling for her.  The lad stopped short.

“Report to the Spellmonger, at the front of the line, for magical duty!” he ordered.

“Me?  All right,” she said, swallowing.  “Uh, can you hold Frightful?  And take my reins?” she asked her brother, Kobb, who wasn’t doing anything more important.

She slid down from the saddle and dutifully followed the boy up the long line of men and horses assembled.  Some of them, she realized, carried banners or shields bearing devices that had been arrayed against Sevendor just a month before.  Friend and foe now marched together under Minalan’s command, alongside Riverlords, mercenaries and the forces of good Baron Arathanial.  Others were unfamiliar, dour men from the baronies of Bocaraton and Miseldor, miles away from Sevendor.

The column of horses and men stretched out along the road past Sevendor Town, Gurisham, and out of sight of the castle.  It was an impressive showing, she knew.  Over six thousand warriors, fresh and ready for battle, under the new Snowflake banner of Sevendor.  Her master, the magelord, was mighty.

When she arrived at the staging area, as she heard folk referring to the wide bare spot of earth in the inner bailey where five tall pillars of snowstone had been erected, she was overwhelmed by all the wizards.  Every mage in Sevendor seemed to be clustered around the perimeter.  She saw Banamor, Master Olmeg, Gareth, and some of the warmagi who’d stayed in Sevendor since the Magic Fair.

Many of the footwizards and spellmongers who’d come for the Fair had taken the chance to provide magical support for the effort.  The three Alka Alon Emissaries were gathered together at one side between two of the pillars, she saw, near Lady Pentandra and Master Minalan, all geared for war.

She stood there, stupidly, for a moment, not knowing what to do, before Tyndal and Rondal happened by.

“There you are, New Kid!” Tyndal called cheerfully, striding purposefully toward her in his armor.  “Master Min wanted us to find you and brief you on your duties.  We need every wizard with a whiff of Talent to pour power into that little rock,” he said, gesturing toward the Alka Alon with the thumb of his gauntlet, “as much as you can, with your witchstone.”

“The power to transport this many people and horses, all at once, is tremendous,” Rondal reminded her.  “Lady Varen has an Alka Alon artifact known as a Covenstone,” he explained.  “It allows magi to pool their arcane power without resorting to using an apis,” he said.  An apis, she recalled, was a magical connection between magi.  “This way, we can all empower her at once, and she can sing the spell that takes all within these bounds through the Ways.  Warmagi from all over the duchies have rushed to get here, to join the effort.  It will take us all.”

“The plan is really quite simple,” agreed Tyndal.  “They’ve already sent a warmage in to scout the area.  Then we’ll send in the first group, with most of the cavalry.”

“I’ll be with them,” Tyndal boasted.  “Liaison to Baron Arathanial, commanding.”

“Well, yes,” Rondal continued, annoyed.  “The Second Group will be mostly infantry, commanded by Sir Taren the Sage – one of the best thaumaturges.  I’ll be with them, with a score of combat warmagi.  You will be in the Third Group, with most of the Magical Corps.  You’re supposed to come out in the spot most distant from the front line.  That’s the goblins and trolls besieging Castle Cambrian.”

“Trolls?” Dara asked, blankly.

“Trolls,” Rondal nodded.  “If you see one, run like three hells.  Once we’re through the Ways, we’ll regroup and split up.  We lucky ones will storm the enemy from behind,” he said, sourly.

“But you’ll be in the group with the smart people,” Tyndal assured her.  “You’re supposed to find a defensible spot and dig in,” Rondal nodded.  “Lady Pentandra will have command.  That will be our rearward fallback point, if things go ill at Castle Cambrian.  You’ll handle support spells, supply depot, and probably a field hospital.  It should be relatively safe duty,” he said, consolingly.

“Oh, come on, Ron, look at her!” Tyndal said, slapping her armored shoulder unexpectedly.  “She’s a hardy sort, ready to stomp on goblins with both feet.  Trolls?  She’ll be ready to take on a dragon before you know it,” he teased.  “We don’t need to worry.  And Pentandra will be there,” he added, confidently.

“Ishi’s—Tyn, can’t you see she’s scared out of her mind?” Rondal hissed.

“I’m not scared!” Dara said, defensively.

“You’d be dumb as a keg of rocks not to be,” Tyndal shrugged.  “Speaking of rocks, take this,” he said, passing her a small stone.  She looked at it oddly.

“Snowstone,” Rondal explained.  “I made up a bunch of them last night.  I’m good with stone.  Master Min wants every man here to have a pebble of snowstone in his pocket to aid the spell.  I figured the members of his household should have something a little more elaborate.”  He and Tyndal were both wearing the little snowflake amulets on thongs around their necks.

“But I’m more worried about us – Master Min has us in the vanguard, doing something stupid, as usual,” Tyndal said, cheerfully.

“The First Group is going right into the siege of Castle Cambrian,” Rondal said, making a grim face.  “They’re going to persuade them to charge the rest of them.  The goblins have a hard time against cavalry.  It’s going to get bloody,” he predicted.  “The Second group is supposed to fill in and support them.  With warmagi.  Us.  At least, that’s the plan.”

“There’s a stout garrison of some of the best warmagi behind those walls, and at least five thousand fighting men,” Tyndal said, annoyed at his fellow’s dour mood.  “The goblins will be hit suddenly from behind by an army that appears out of nowhere.  We’ll crush them between us!”

Rondal rolled his eyes, even more annoyed.  “Your grasp of strategy is truly stunning to behold.  Just get your stone out, relax, and wait for the order,” he continued to Dara, in a more pleasant tone.  “When it comes, draw all the power you can and direct it to the Covenstone.  Keep doing that until they tell you to stop.  Understand?”

“I understand,” Dara nodded, fumbling for the pouch on her belt where she kept the box with her stone.  She was unused to carrying it, still, but Master Min had allowed it for the duration of the expedition.  She remembered her father’s advice about brevity in battle, and tried to recall the types of phrases she’d heard around the castle.  “Pentandra is in command, we take a defensive position rearward, provide support magic as needed.”

“See? She understands!” Tyndal snorted.  “She’s not stupid.”

“I never said she was stupid!  She’s just new, and this is her first battle,” Rondal said, crossly.  “Can you speak mind-to-mind, yet?” he asked.

“What?” Dara asked, confused.

“Her stone wasn’t from... it,” Tyndal reminded Rondal, mysteriously.  “Pentandra’s working on it, but until she does you aren’t supposed to even talk about... that!”

“Fine!” Rondal said, in frustration, leaving Dara no less confused.  “Just stay close to Pentandra, then – as close as Tyndal would.  She’ll relay any further orders to you.”

“I will,” Dara promised.  “Do I have time to fix my helmet?”

“Are you joking?” snorted Tyndal.  “This is war.  Time is of the essence.  Every moment counts.  So we’ll be standing around and waiting for what feels like forever, before it’s time.  Make haste and abide.  Here, relax, drink some water.  Stretch, maybe,” he advised.  “You don’t want to cramp up in armor.”

“She’ll do fine,” Rondal said.  “Let’s go see Gareth, now.  I swear to Ishi, if I have to...” the shorter apprentice grumbled to himself as the two stomped off.

Dara couldn’t help but smile.  Tyndal and Rondal irritated each other like her brothers did.  Only it sounded cuter, in their Wilderlands accents.

She took the time to tie her hair into a ponytail, the one white shock of it over her brow refusing to behave until she used both hands to tame it.  She left her heavy helmet off, enjoying the cool morning air on her sweaty face, and fidgeted with the lid of her witchstone’s box.  She added the little snowflake to it.  Perhaps it would help, she reasoned.

Far sooner than Tyndal had led her to suspect the heralds began to call out orders down the line of wizards around the wide circle, instructing everyone to prepare to draw power.  Dara obediently opened her box and took the tiny pebble of magical amber in the palm of her hand... and let the wave of power wash through the connection.  As she’d done before, she allowed the arcane energy build up in her like water in a jug until she seemed full to bursting.  Then she took even more, just a little, expanding her capacities as widely as she could manage.  Just as the power seemed overwhelming, Lady Ithalia and Lady Falawen began to sing a beautiful, unearthly duet.

All around her other wizards – far more powerful magi, with much more potent stones – were doing the same thing, sending a surge of residual energy into the air like a cloud.  More than a score of magi with irionite, as well as common magi recruited for the task, were adding their energies together, each sending as much of it as they could toward the Covenstone in Lady Varen’s hands.

The place must have looked like a bright fog with magesight, a part of her mind observed while the rest of it wrestled with the unaccustomed font of power rushing through it.  This was more magical energy than she thought anyone could raise!  She could feel, more than see, the streams of energy lancing across the circle toward the stately Alka Alon woman.  She added her own tendril of power to the tangled skein, and the Covenstone drank it in without resistance.

Dara was so intent on her magic that she was only vaguely aware of the horses and soldiers being led into the circle until they were packed in so tightly that Dara could smell and hear them crowding the edge.

When Lady Varen added her voice to the other two Emissaries, Dara could feel a dramatic shift in the spell.  There was a shudder in the space in front of her, and all of a sudden all of the men and horses were... gone.

Dara let her connection to her stone collapse.  It was the longest she’d ever maintained it, and she’d drawn more power from it than she’d done in all of her lessons put together.  The effort made the march to the castle feel like skipping across a meadow, she found, as her limbs sagged in desperate weariness.

She recovered quickly, as did most of the wizards involved in the spell.  Many were as amazed as she was that it had worked – for word quickly spread that contact had been made with the First Group, and they were safely away in far Gilmora.

Dara shook her head in wonder as she gasped for air and looked around for her water bottle.  Her mouth was parched, and sweat was beading on her brow, as her body recovered from the spell.  Lady Varen looked far worse off, the most stricken she’d ever seen one of the Emissaries.

The call to make ready again came far too soon, just over an hour from the first, but Dara dutifully called power from her witchstone once again.  It seemed to come easier this time, and she seemed to be able to handle more... but when the Second Group vanished from the white circle, Dara threw herself on the ground, gasping from the effort.  It took her body much longer to recover this time, and she wasn’t the only one.  One poor wizard had fainted from the effort, and Lady Varen looked positively stricken.

Thankfully, whomever was in charge allowed additional time for the wizards to recuperate before the Third Group went through.  For this one, Dara and the other magi destined to travel to Gilmora moved within the circle and prepared themselves for battle, before they began raising power a third time.

Dara’s fingers trembled around her witchstone, once she’d put her helmet on and strapped it into place.  Her brother Kobb arrived with the rest of her family in the Third Group, and he continued to helpfully hold Frightful’s jesses in one gauntleted fist while he drew his sword with his other.

“They really just disappeared into thin air?” her brother asked, mystified.  “One minute they were here, and then they were just... gone?”

“That’s how magic usually works,” Dara nodded, unwilling to explain any further.  Her head was spinning and her nerves felt like they were burning with the effort of raising that much power.  “They’re safe on the other side,” she added.

“How do you know?” Kyre asked, riding up next to his brother.

“Magic,” she shrugged.  She began to realize how helpful it was to use that word to non-magi.  It just took too long to explain the details – particularly when you weren’t terribly certain of them yourself.  “They’re safe, in Gilmora.  For all I know, they’re already fighting,” she added.  That seemed to mollify her kinfolk, who all seemed to look to her for insight into what was going on.

While she knew that was foolish, she was also mindful that they deemed it important... and from their grim faces and attempts to conceal their fear, she knew she could not fail them.  She spent as much time as possible comforting Frightful and acting unconcerned, which she hoped lent confidence to her family.

She dreaded the third call to draw power, but when it came she once again plunged her mind into the stone and coaxed energy from it.  Everyone’s streams were weaker, now, she noted.  It took much longer to raise the energy the Emissaries needed to make the transfer.  Lady Varen had gotten a nosebleed, she’d put so much of herself into the spells.  Lady Pentandra, also inside the circle, looked frightened, and for a moment Dara didn’t think that the spell would work.

Then she and everyone around her was plunged into a terrifyingly directionless space that made her sick to her stomach.  There was no ground under her feet, no light from the morning sun, no air against her face, no sound, and no sense of time.  Only Frightful’s frightened mind screamed into hers during those awful moments.

Then they were out, and she felt the cold, wet ground against her face as she slipped off her saddle.  The grass near her eye spun around crazily as her mind tried to get her senses to make sense of things again.  It took her a good ten breaths to get her bearings well enough to do more than open her eyes and drool into the mud.

But why was it wet?

Oh, she realized, as a big fat drop of rain fell against her cheek and dripped down her face.  It’s raining.

That seemed like an excellent time to vomit.

Dara was one of the few who had fallen as soon as the group emerged from the Ways into a grassy meadow in Gilmora... in the middle of a downpour.  Moving from dry and cool to wet and chilly was disconcerting enough, but Dara was also confused by where the sun was.  It had been late morning in Sevendor.  Here, the differences emphasized the strangeness of the country.  The sun was barely over the treetops in the east.  There were no real mountains in the distance.  The air smelled wrong, tasted wrong on her tongue, and the birds she heard were singing strange songs.  A sense of disorientation swept over her as she struggled to marshal her resources.

Frightful helped.  She was frightened and confused, but took comfort in Dara’s presence.  That in turn encouraged Dara to calm herself, lest they have to contend with an angry falcon in their midst.  Thankfully Doughty recovered more quickly than the falcon.  In the first few moments of chaos, after everyone tumbled out of... wherever it was they’d been, she could hear the Ancients and officers calling out orders, as soldiers helped the fallen back to their feet.  She felt bad about getting sick, especially in front of her kin.  She must have looked a sight.

Then she realized no one was paying much attention to either her or her bird.  They were too busy surveying the strange territory and getting organized into a formation.  The Westwoodmen were forming up around her father, who was barking orders to them until they were in a kind of line.  She climbed into Doughty’s saddle, where her bird was lashed.  From Doughty’s back she tried to steady herself and get used to this strange new country.

“Sir Roncil!” Master Minalan yelled over the noise, as everyone settled down and took their places.  “Cavalry on our flanks, deploy scouts to the north, everyone else form into ranks, keep your eyes open, and be ready to kill anything hairier than you are!”

Around her the rest of her family and the other warmagi sorted themselves out as they chuckled at the Spellmonger’s joke.  Her brothers drew their bows, but did not nock arrows.  She sat there, keeping her beasts calm, and waited for someone to tell her what to do.

A moment later a Riverlord – Sire Fetalan, she recalled, Sir Festaran’s father – strode by with a spear over one shoulder, and directed them to form up behind a band of mercenaries in heavy armor.  He grabbed Dara by the arm before she could follow, and bidding her to bring Frightful, the knight directed her to the very center of the group where the rest of the Magical Corps was gathering.  Those who were not directed into battle, that was.  Her fellow magi were gathering, separating from a small but heavily-armed band of warmagi on the other side of the formation.

To her surprise, her father, uncles, and brothers all followed.  Sire Fetalan looked confused, until her father spoke.

“We’re the Magelord’s personal guard,” he growled.

“Does he know that?” the knight asked in surprise.

“He will in a moment,” shrugged Kamen.  “But where he goes, the Westwood follows.”

That seemed to settle the matter for the knight, and all of them made their way to the center.

Pentandra, looking tiny even in her armor, was busy ordering magi about on various tasks while other soldiers took sentry positions around the perimeter of the small army.  The Remeran wizard looked up and was grateful to see Dara and her family trudge across the meadow.

“What’s that smell?” Dara asked, when she got close enough to speak.

“Goblin,” Pentandra answered, wrinkling her nose.  “A lot of them.  We need your bird to scout ahead, Dara,” Pentandra directed.  “There are too many goblin shamans about to scry without interference.  They’re blocking our efforts.  But Frightful can scout ahead and see what foes we face... and where we might find shelter from them.  Do you think you can do that?”

“I believe so,” Dara said, glancing at Frightful, and then at the surrounding countryside.  “It’s strange territory, but she’ll do as I command her, once I’m riding with her.”

“Good,” the older wizard nodded.  “Scout the castle, first.  We need a hawk’s-eye view of what’s happening, before we charge into battle.”

Dara nodded and took her helmet off, figuring it would be easier to fly Frightful without it.  She took a deep breath and pulled the hood off her.  Frightful’s big dark eyes blinked in the bright sunshine, and she stared at Dara in confusion.  It took a moment for her to calm the bird, but soon she ruffled her feathers and let Dara know she was ready to fly.

Dara took a deep breath and closed her eyes.  She established a connection to the falcon, her natural affinity linking their two minds.  Without looking she hauled back her right arm and flung the bird into the sky.

It was odd to be both the falcon and the falconer, she decided, as Frightful’s powerful wings beat the wind.  Dara felt the thrill of speed as the sun glistened off her feathers as the ground fell away behind her.  She climbed until the entire army below was a dark blotch of turmoil among a brilliant landscape of green and brown fields.  In moments, the falcon was hundreds of feet above the ground, soaring above the tree line and towards the spires of the besieged castle.

There were other birds in the air over the scene – carrion birds, ravens and crows who were attracted to the feast of recently-slain flesh from the battle below.  From a distance the castle didn’t look unusual to the falcon’s eye.  But Dara could tell something was amiss, even though Frightful did not.  Men lined the battlements, raining down arrows, stones, and the occasional spell into the crowd below.

At first Dara didn’t realize what they were shooting at... then she recognized the long, dark shadow around the pretty castle for what it was with a mental shudder: legions of goblins swarming around the exterior of the castle wall like ants attacking a picnic.  A large company of them was gathered in what was left of the village, which was long-since destroyed and burnt out.  Another was gathered in the market square in front of the castle, firing hundreds of darts and arrows into the fortress.

Some of the goblins were employing captured crossbows in throwing rocks the size of apples to clear defenders from the battlements, which they did with brutal accuracy.  In some places, they were constructing crude redoubts with trees and scavenged materials – cluster of felled trees and logs that would provide at least some protection from attack.  As yet they had not breached the wall, but Dara could not imagine them failing to do so.  There were just too many, and every one that fell with a long arrow in its chest was replaced by another dark, furry warrior, just as eager to storm the castle.

She withdrew her consciousness from her bird enough to report to Pentandra what she’d found, and the Remeran dutifully reported to Minalan.

“We’re two miles west from Group Two,” Pentandra told her, when she’d returned.  “They’re getting in line to attack.  We’re ordered to fall back and find a defensible position.”

“Where?” Dara asked.

“That’s what you need to discover,” Pentandra directed.  “Use Frightful and survey the lands to the south, now; we want something a mile or so behind the lines.  A village, a manor, anything that looks remotely defensible.  And how many gurvani lie between it... and us.”

The road Pentandra mentioned was off to her right, but Frightful barely noted it.  She was far more interested in the figures infesting the fields and patches of forests ahead of her.  Ordinarily Frightful’s attention was limited to the movements of rabbits or small birds... but the things moving around the edges of the fields or the hedges surrounding cottages were not mere game.  They had arms and legs, and something about them unnerved the falcon.

Dara did her best to count them, and note their positions, but it was difficult.  Frightful’s small mind had no facility for numbers, beyond a few basics, even if she had a keen memory for locations.  When she flew across the first burned-out farmstead she knew precisely where it was, in relation to Dara.  But she had no idea of how many goblins were in the process of attacking it.  Dara had to concentrate on separating her consciousness from the bird’s to even estimate.

But it was clear to both bird and wizard that there were no humans left alive to rescue, below.  But the big cottage might be defensible, whatever that meant.  Once she was certain the falcon was on course back to her, Dara allowed most of her link to fall.

“I think I found a place,” she reported, once she regained her own eyes.  “I think it’s a manor or abbey or big farmer’s hold, about three quarters of a mile southwest of here.  Across the road,” she added.

“Any goblins in our way?” Pentandra asked, as she summoned a magemap she’d prepared.  Dara could only barely glimpse the arcane construct without magesight, but she’d seen them used before.  It was a magical map that only wizards could see – which she could see would be very useful in a situation like this.

“Plenty,” Dara assured her.  “But scattered in small bands of five or six, hiding in the shade of trees and thickets.”

“To them, it’s like it’s evening,” Pentandra nodded.  “The gurvani are nocturnal, and have been up raiding all night.”

“They took a farm just to the south of us,” Dara agreed.  “There’s still a band of a dozen or so there, looting the storehouse.  No one survived,” she added, grimly.  “But I didn’t see any groups larger than that between us and the abbey.”

“Thank you,” Pentandra nodded, making a note.  “Any signs of shamans?”

Dara shrugged.  “How would Frightful know if it was a shaman?  She’s never even seen goblins before!”

“A fair point,” Pentandra agreed.  “We’ll have to assume that there aren’t, but be prepared if there are.  But that sounds like our best bet for a reserve depot.  Ancient Gusan!” she called, walking away from Dara.  A moment later Frightful landed in front of her, earning a treat from Dara’s pouch while Dara hooded her.

Hopefully, that will be the most they’ll need from me, she told herself as she petted her falcon, cooing praise for her flight.  She didn’t see how she could help pry the pretty castle away from the goblins any more than she had, but she kept up with the rest of her troop as faithfully as anyone, her eyes peeled for goblins.  I mean, what else could I possibly do?

Chapter Seven

Battle at the Cotyard

When Master Minalan the Spellmonger led his troops into the ruined farmstead, the few goblins left behind to root through the ashes tried in vain to take to their heels – but the powerful Wilderlands bows the Sevendori all carried, now, made short work of them.

The infantry spread out and took positions at the edge of the hedgework that surrounded the farmhouse,  while others took control behind the knee-high stone wall that defined the wide yard of the cottage.  It looked desolate and ruined, everything smashed and scorched . . . and bloody.  Her cousin Kory, one of the best shots in the Westwood, took a post among the burnt thatch on the roof of the cottage, overlooking the cotyard, below.  From there his keen eye could keep any goblins who got too close from doing any mischief.

Lady Pentandra quickly took control of the little military outpost.  Relying on Sir Roncil and the other knights for assistance, she ordered cookfires lit, a small medical pavilion erected, and small cavalry patrols around the cottage.  Kori proudly raised Sevendor’s new banner over the charred rafters, and five sturdy guards kept watch over the gate in the short stone wall near the front of the cottage.  In a surprisingly short time the ruined cot was reorganized.

“We’ll leave you to it, then,” Minalan announced to the non-combat Magical Corps, after they’d spent an hour setting up a small field hospital and stacked their meager supplies in a corner.  “There shouldn’t be any large bands nearby, and you have two score knights to screen you from any who wander by.  Just be prepared to accept our wounded, if things go ill,” he reminded them, as he prepared to ride away.  “Dara, you and a squadron of your kin are with me, for now,” he decided.  “I’ll need Frightful’s eyes again, if we’re to assault the goblins from behind.”

Dara felt strangely anxious about riding away from the nominal safety of the cottage.  While having the most powerful wizard in the world around gave her a sense of security that even a score of knights could not match, there was no denying that they were headed into danger.

The small column of knights and magi halted about a half-mile away from the nearest goblin camp.  The warriors from Sevendor spread out, taking cover behind anything they could at the direction of their officers.  Their great bows were drawn and nocked, now, and swords came loose in their sheaths.

Master Minalan nodded to her.  It took her a moment to realize what he was asking of her, but then she prepared Frightful for another flight to overfly the gurvani, ahead.  She soon reported that the majority of the troops were massed around Castle Cambrian’s south gate, and the least number were on the northeastern side.  There were thousands, she told him.  At least ten or twelve thousands.  But, thankfully, no trolls were in evidence.

Finally, Minalan seemed to come to some decision after he’d recreated her observations on a magemap.

“Sir Roncil, prepare the cavalry for a skirmish.  Infantry wait here.  With our intelligence and analysis sections,” he said, looking meaningfully at Dara.

She nodded back.  Being on a battlefield was exciting.  Rushing in to get killed was not.  She would be glad to return to Pentandra with her bird. The cot was nearly within sight of the battle, close enough so that the stench of gurvani was strong in the air.  Right now it felt like a castle to her, the way it represented security.

She was escorted back by a strange warmage, a tall man in black armor who wore his witchstone on an elaborate silver earring, of all things.  He also bore a shiny bow of silvery metal, beautifully but strangely styled – a gift from the Alka Alon, she learned.

“Sarakeem of Merwin,” he introduced himself.  “I saw you win the Spellmonger’s Trial.  Impressive work,” he nodded.  “And becoming Minalan’s apprentice?  You were born under a lucky star, child!”

“I don’t feel particularly lucky,” Dara said, setting Frightful back on to her shoulder.

“You don’t crave the passion of battle?” the warmage asked, surprised.

“I don’t crave its unfortunate conclusion,” she said, glumly.

The warmage was unconvinced.  “The glory of victory?  That is the purpose of battle.  The specter of death?  Its possibility lends an especial quality to life.  One is simply not alive until one has struggled in a contest on the field with your life on the line,” he said, philosophically, in his strange accent.

The warmage lectured her on the nobility of his profession all the way back to the cottage.  She was intrigued by how much the man seemed to embrace the danger and excitement of war.  Her brothers, and even the knights of the castle, accepted the dangers of war as part of their duty.  Sarakeem, on the other hand, approached the prospect of battle like a priest considered prayers and rituals.

“Don’t worry, little one,” Sarakeem chuckled indulgently as he brought her to Pentandra’s headquarters within the cottage.  “You’ll soon find the allure of battle,” he assured her.  “It is like that of love, only . . . more fulfilling.”

“Ignore Sarakeem,” Pentandra said, rolling her eyes as she looked up from a broad, hastily-penned map on four enormous sheets of parchment.  “Whatever he told you, ignore it.”

“I thought he was a great warmage?” Dara asked, confused.

“Oh, he is,” Pentandra agreed.  “One of the best bowmen in the business, from what Minalan tells me.  But that doesn’t mean he knows what he’s talking about.  He’s a horrible boor, he loves the sound of his own voice, and he delights in tales of his own greatness.  This,” she said, changing the subject as she gestured to the map, “is our present situation, as reported.

“This is Castle Cambrian, the road, the village . . . and all of these little seeds are goblins.  The nuts are our forces, inside the castle and out.  We,” she emphasized, “that is, our unit, are way back here, at the cottage,” she said, tapping one edge of the map.  “You were just up there, can you help me make this a little more accurate?”

Dara nodded and began comparing the map to her recollection from Frightful’s overflight.  It took a few moments of pushing the seeds and nuts across the map, but soon it resembled what she remembered a lot more accurately.

But it didn’t stay that way for long.  Pentandra kept closing her eyes meaningfully, then making adjustments to the map.  Mostly pulling seeds off, and moving the nuts around.

“I can speak to Minalan, Tyndal, Rondal and Terleman through their witchstones,” she explained, when Dara asked where her intelligence was coming from.  “It’s a bit of a secret, but we can communicate mind-to-mind.  They’re sending me reports, as they are able.”

“How do they fare?” Dara asked, hesitantly.  She knew that Master Minalan and his men were brave and powerful . . . but there were an awful lot of goblins around that castle.

“Well,” Pentandra conceded, when she had a moment.  “The infantry has formed up to the east, archers ready, while the cavalry is being used to peel away as many gurvani units as possible to give chase to them.  Minalan’s force is being used to lure as many away from the siege as possible, and lead them out there,” she said, gesturing to the trampled field that could be seen through the ruined cottage’s framework.  “Once there, they’ll be caught between the infantry and cavalry.  Now, if you can receive any dispatches that come in from the field and make changes to the map, I’ve got to contact the commanders and get an update.”

Dara nodded, though she fervently hoped no dispatches would come – she was able to puzzle out a few words, so far, but the magic of reading still eluded her.  For her part, Pentandra merely closed her eyes several times, then opened them and made adjustments to the map.

“Why don’t you join the discussion?” she asked, gesturing to one end of the ruined cot where many of the wizards were clustered around the fireplace, when there was a lull in reports coming in.  “There’s a lot of different kinds of magi over there, from footwizards to adepts.  I think you’ll find that a lot of your education will come through just listening to other wizards, at first.  But until you’re called for, best stay within shouting distance.

Dara nodded and carefully took her hooded bird over toward the fire.  The diverse collection of her professional colleagues looked a bit like she imagined a disreputable inn’s common room might resemble: some were warmagi in armor, others were footwizards, itinerant, undocumented magi who wandered from village to village, selling their illegal magic to those who could afford it.

A few were legitimate village spellmongers from around the Bontal Vales who had been in Sevendor for the Magic Fair and had answered the Spellmonger’s call for volunteers.  The one thing they had in common besides their profession, it seemed to Dara, was they were all absolutely certain they knew how to contend with the siege better than their commanders.

“. . . bloody waste of time, going after those scrugs piecemeal,” one of the footwizards was braying in a loud tone of voice as he stirred the fire.  “There’s no end to them, and the more we play around the more will arrive.  Plunge in and start slashing, that’s what would do it!”

“Brave talk from a man without a sword,” grumbled one of the warmagi, fidgeting with a slender magic rod in his lap.  “Every encounter brings casualties.  If Master Minalan was able to raise a fire elemental, like he did at Timberwatch, he could slay thousands of goblins without wasting a human life!”

“I was at Timberwatch!” another warmage said, skeptically.  “It took days and hundreds of pounds of supplies to prepare that spell.  And it didn’t last as long as it needed to.  Not to mention burning a few dozen of our lads who were unfortunate enough to get in the way.  Nay, there will be no fire elementals . . . not in this bloody rain!” he scowled, as a particularly fat drop plummeted into his bearded face from the scorched rafters above.

Dara had heard of Minalan’s masterful work in the far Wilderlands – although, she suddenly realized, they were a lot less far from Gilmora than from Sevendor.  The great giant of flame that trampled thousands of goblins was one of the stories that everyone told about her master.  But it was interesting to hear about it this way, from some who were really there.

“What’s to keep the goblins from turning on us here, in force?” asked one spellmonger nervously.  The man wore no armor, and he’d traded his four-pointed cap for a simple steel helm that looked enormous on his small head.  “There’s a whole army of them out there, and there aren’t more than a few hundred of us in this ruin!”

“They want them to come here,” chuckled the older warmage, wickedly.  “That’s the bloody point, isn’t it?  But if they turned their backs on the castle, Terleman and his lads would go through them like green apples from behind!  Aye, Terleman, that’s a real warmage!  He’s young, but he’s been in more battles than many a veteran,” he assured.  “Keen eyed, resolute, always—”

“Then why’d he let himself get trapped in a castle, surrounded by goblins?” scoffed a wizard of indeterminate station, from the edge of the fire.  “Doesn’t sound that bloody smart to me!”

“Fortunes of war!” defended the warmage.  “Duin the Destroyer’s favorite lady is Ifnia, Goddess of Luck!  Not even the War God can contend with her wild decisions.  Who knew that the Day of the Dragons would come, and dash all of his plans?  He’s a bloody miracle worker for getting as many men as he did behind walls, before the full invasion came.  If it weren’t for him, we’d be picking through the ashes of Barrowbell, right now!”

Dara was both amused and appalled at the argument . . . she’d expected the discussion to revolve around the lofty application of arcane arts to the problem.  Instead it resembled her brothers and cousins comparing the merits of horses they’d never afford to purchase.

“Hey!  Girl!” one of the spellmongers said, suddenly.  “Fetch me a drink!  I know we brought ale with us, and I’m sure these grunts has some wine tucked away!”

“Firstly,” came Pentandra’s reproving voice from the other end of the cottage, “The ‘girl’ you are addressing is the Spellmonger’s new apprentice, and not your servant, Harnam; secondly, you are on duty and therefore restricted to normal military rations of drink, at appropriate times.  Thirdly, any of you who can draw a bow, cast a spell, or just throw a rock are ordered to the perimeter to prepare for action.  And lastly,” she finished, “Dara, I need you to prepare your bird.  Minalan just contacted me.  He’s headed this way, and he needs you to tell him how many goblins are chasing him.”

It took but a few moments for Dara to unhood Frightful, fling her into the air, and sit down to connect with her bird.  She spent the next hour reporting what she saw . . . and what she saw was frightening.

This flight Frightful got close enough to see the goblins chasing her master up close.  They were ugly little things, larger than the Tal Alon, with longer arms and odd-shaped hands.  Their heads were wide, their eyes large and dark, and their faces looked more like animals than men.  The bodies of the gurvani were covered in thick matted fur, as black as the Tal Alon’s was brown.  The ones madly pursuing Master Minalan and his warmagi were fiercely clad.  Some wore armor of animal hides and bone, while others had donned armor clearly looted from their human victims.

It was a horrifying scene, as she soared and dove over the horde of gurvani.  There were hundreds of them who had given chase on foot when the Spellmonger’s men tormented them in a sudden attack.  An entire wedge of goblins had broken off from the rear of the forces besieging Castle Cambrian and pursuing the retreating wizards.  They howled and screamed, more an angry mob than a military force, Dara decided . . . but there were hundreds, probably a few thousand, who were chasing the few dozen human warriors.  When Frightful soared back over the siege, fully a quarter of the army had broken away in response to the attack.

It was an eventful chase, with the humans, on horseback, slowing their retreat to keep the goblins angry enough to follow.  Twice the gurvani slowed their advance, forcing the warmagi to taunt them further into chasing them.

From Frightful’s perspective overhead she could see how the battle unfolded better than anyone.  Below her she watched the forces move and clash like ants fighting over a dead bug.  But she could also begin to appreciate Master Minalan’s strategy.  While it was true that the number of goblins besieging the castle dwarfed the expedition from Sevendor, the way in which his small force had swiftly antagonized the gurvani into running after it had drawn off a great number of them.

Nor did the goblins have the benefit of her perspective, which showed the mass of archers and infantrymen who’d taken position in a field just out of sight of the siege, near the cottage she was in.  Or the wedge of cavalry that was sweeping around the other side of the cottage, out of sight of the approaching goblins.

With a combination of horror and glee, Dara observed the trap unfold.  As the gurvani chased the warmagi into the far corner of the trampled field in front of the cottage, the wizards halted, as if wounded or winded.  They made a tempting target.

But the gurvani’s triumph was short-lived.  Dara would have loved to see the conclusion of the battle from Frightful’s perspective, but she felt hands shaking her back to her own body.

“Get your falcon clear of the battle,” Pentandra advised her, a gleam in her eye.  “We need every hand for this part!”

“Huh?” Dara asked, confused.

“Grab your bow!” Pentandra directed, as she drew a slender wand from her belt.  “We have to protect our perimeter!  Everyone to the wall who can shoot!”

Dara nodded dumbly as she rose and shook life back into her limbs.  She almost didn’t feel the bow in her hand when she picked it up, but by the time she’d joined the others in the cottage’s yard the feeling had come back to her fingers enough to feel the smooth edge of the fletchings of her arrow as she put its nock to the string.

She found herself pulled away from her fellow magi and toward the familiar mantles of her family.  The Westwoodmen had taken up positions in a line across the knee-high wall that stretched across the courtyard.  She found a small gap between her brother Kyre and her uncle Keram and nervously looked into the distance.

It was an entirely different perspective, here on the ground.  The goblins she saw in the distance were far more menacing here, their cries and chants echoing across the field as they spied the human emplacement.  From here the goblins stretched in a long, dark, menacing line from one end of the field to the other.  Arrows – ugly little black-fletched darts – began to fly towards them though thankfully they were not yet in range.

“How do you fare, Little Bird?” her uncle asked, concerned.  His helmet was well-fastened and he held his new Wilderlands-style longbow with determination.

“I’m fine, by the Flame,” she assured him.  She glanced over to her brother, who was grinning widely at her.  “I’d be more worried about him!”

“Why?” Kyre asked, confused.

“Because I know how many goblins are out there,” she said, as calmly as possible, as she set up her quiver against the wall in front of her where she could reach the arrows quickly.  “And if Kyre did, he’d be half-way back to Sevendor by now!”

That made her uncle chuckle and her brother snort, and assured them of her bravery.

But Dara was frightened.  Those were real goblins out there, just a few hundred feet away.

And they wanted to kill her.

That sobering thought scoured away all the excitement she’d felt about coming along, revealing the dread and fear underneath.  She was frightened, and she didn’t need to be a mage to know that her brother and uncle were, too.  The angry cries in the distance, and the arrows that landed closer and closer, made her feel small and vulnerable, despite her armor.

“Steady, Westwood!” she heard her father’s deep voice call from down the line.  “Just like being at the butts back home!  Easier targets than on the Steps!”

“Hold steady, my valiant friends!” affirmed the bell-like voice of Lady Ithalia, who had jumped onto the short wall, her longbow in hand.  “Let them come a little closer . . .”

The line of goblins was coming closer and closer to the cottage, lured by the few defenders they saw standing against them.  They were hopelessly outnumbered and the goblins knew it.  A few broke from the mass and charged, determined to be the first to attack the human ranks.

That’s when Dara had another realization.  She – and everyone in the cottage redoubt – were really the bait in this trap!

“Steady!” Lady Ithalia repeated, though her own bow twanged twice in quick succession.  Dara saw two of the enterprising goblins who got too close fall.  “Nock your shafts!  A little closer . . .”

Dara felt her anxiety rise in her throat as more and more goblins began to run toward them.  She heard Sarakeem’s distinctive voice over the others, laughing as his own metal bow brought down the leaders of the charge.

“Draw!” Lady Ithalia finally commanded.  Dara’s left arm went up, as her right hand drew the powerful bow back to her cheek.  Her falconer’s gauntlet kept the bowstring from cutting into her fingers, but she could feel the strength of the bow pull in her back and shoulders.  She held the position for what felt like minutes before the command came.  More and more goblins were pouring toward them.

“FIRE!”

Dara’s fingers released the shaft of their own accord, and her bowstring slapped against her vambrace in unison with the others around her.  She watched the flight of arrows rise as one, gracefully arcing over the heads of the leading goblins before slamming into the ranks behind.  She didn’t know if her arrow hit anything or not, but she also knew that wasn’t the point of a volley.  It was to create a rain of death that was difficult to avoid.

While her fingers sought the next shaft, her eyes watched as the brutal efficiency of a proper volley was presented.  The infantry off to her right revealed themselves to the goblins.  As shieldmen moved into place in front of them, the archers of the Bontal Vales launched a devastating volley at the unsuspecting goblins.  If the Westwoodmen’s arrows had tormented the goblins, the Bontali volley was massive by comparison.  Hundreds of three-foot long arrows arched gracefully through the air, smashing into the unprepared gurvani army and shredding them.

Dara could hear the cries turn from anger to alarm as the surprise attack hammered at the goblins.  She followed her father’s bellowed orders to nock, draw, and fire over and over, their flights peppering the flank of the confused mob in front of them.  Some of the goblins angrily charged at the shields of the infantry, while others began to flee the battle the way they came . . . or continue their charge toward the cottage.

But many others cried piteously as wave after wave of arrows fell on them amid the raindrops.  Screams of pain and sounds more horrible came from gurvani throats as they panicked.

Sarakeem and Lady Ithalia were gallantly shooting at the goblins foolish enough to attempt to storm the cottage redoubt.  Their bowstrings sang thrice as fast as other archers.  Dara began picking her targets, as they came close enough to sight them.  Her father ordered them to fire at will, instead of in volley, as the foe approached the wall.  Dara’s sense of fear rose in her as the first goblin got close enough for her to witness the shaft she put through its thigh.  She flinched involuntarily as the furry horror cried in pain . . . but it didn’t stop running toward her, a short sword in its clawed fist.

And it didn’t stop her from putting a second shaft into its chest the moment her trembling hands could manage it.

As a knot of the enemy made it within fifty feet of the courtyard, Dara felt Pentandra arrive behind her.  She was using magesight to spy the battle, Dara knew, as she did her best to improve her form.  Pentandra seemed to detect something Dara couldn’t see – but then Dara was focused on the closest goblin she could shoot.

Then the Remeran settled on a target.  “Ithalia!  Sarakeem!  They have a shaman!” she said, pointing out over the field.  “He’s attacking our wards!”  To emphasize her point, and direct their fire, she sent a long lance of magical light pointing toward where she suspected the shaman to be.

Dara blinked.  She’d heard far too much about the gurvani shamans.  Each was armed with a witchstone more powerful than the one she carried.  They could be real trouble, she knew.

But whatever power they had was not proof against a well-placed arrow, as Sarakeem proved a moment later.  His mighty bow twanged over and over as he sought his target.  A cry of triumph told her that he’d found it.

“Well done!” Pentandra called, with a cheer.  Despite the victory, however, the number of goblins encroaching on the cottage was growing beyond their capacity to keep them at bay.  Apparently when faced with slaughter from the Bovali shafts or the smaller danger of the cotyard, there were plenty of goblins willing to take a chance against the magi.

Pentandra saw the problem, too, as she took a step back.  “Prepare for combat!  Draw swords!  Defensive spells!” she ordered the defenders in the redoubt.  “We only have to hold them long enough for the cavalry to re-group!”

The first goblin to get within twenty feet of the courtyard was met by a skirmish line of four armored knights, who overwhelmed the intrepid gurvan in an instant as it slipped in the muddy terrain.  The next few were less reckless, but no less overmatched.  Only when their numbers allowed two or three of their warriors to confront the knights did they become a challenge.

But then they were a dreadful challenge, Dara saw.  One of the knights was nearly overwhelmed before a shaft from Kyre’s bow rescued him from an attack from behind.  The fight was close enough for Dara to see the long black tongue of the goblin who fell.

“Ashes!” her brother Kobb swore, as he pulled another shaft from his quiver.  “They’re going to make it to the wall!”

“Just wait!” Dara insisted, as she aimed at the next furry body to enter her view.

“Until they get here?” he snorted, as his bowstring sang again.  “I don’t think I’ll have to!”

Thankfully, they were distracted a moment later by the sound of horns over the fields.  First one, then two, then too many to count, as the ground beneath her feet began to vibrate.

Baron Arathanial’s cavalry had arrived.

As one of their defending knights swept the head off a vicious-looking scrug, Dara could feel the ruckus being caused by the arrival of six hundred knights from the Bontal Vales plunging into the rear of the horde, lances couched.  Their arrival was heralded by a loud and shocking bang, and then a wave of gurvani screams as the warhorses and lances tore into them before they could make the cotyard.

“Cease fire!” called her father, echoing the order from down the line, as Arathanial’s banner plunged into the back of the goblins.  “We don’t want to hit our own folk!”

Dara found herself cheering so loudly her throat hurt, and she noticed how thirsty she was.  But now was not the time for a drink, she knew.  The cavalry charge startled the gurvani, and a few turned away from the fading volleys of arrows to face them. Dara watched in fascinated horror as the wave of armored knights swept through the rear of the goblin army.

She gained a powerful appreciation for how much damage knights could do, when charging in groups against foot soldiers.  Wherever the line of horsemen went, a wave of screaming, angry, and dying goblins was left behind.  When the charge slowed, half-way through the goblins, the knights dropped their lances and drew their swords and maces and began dealing destruction to every gurvan in reach.

While that forced the goblins to turn away from the archers, infantry, and cottage redoubt to face their new attackers, the maneuver did little to help them.  Master Minalan and his warmagi, temporarily forgotten, now launched a fresh wave of spells that began to erode the goblin defenses.  While most of the magic was invisible without magesight, the effects were profound.  Goblins suddenly began attacking their fellows in a crazed fashion, while others merely sank to the ground and whimpered, or clutched their stomachs or eyes or throats as the wizards’ spells swept over them and found their targets.

As if the gods themselves were watching, the storm chose that moment to surge.  When the cavalry began to stall, the dark clouds overhead poured rain on the battle, turning the trodden field into a muddy, bloody nightmare that affected friend and foe alike. Dara tried to ignore the wet as it slowly soaked into her mantle and dripped from the brim of her helmet, but it was hard.

Suddenly, one of the archers became irritated with the role of spectator.  Sarakeem looked out at the battle, like a child left out of a game, frustrated at the order to cease fire.  Then he screwed up his face and vaulted over the low wall.

“I must have battle!” he exclaimed.  “This inactivity is unacceptable!”  He expressed his disapproval by firing three arrows in rapid success as he landed.  Each shot hit, Dara saw, the last one apparently without Sarakeem even looking at the target.

The Merwyni warmage wasn’t the only one who craved battle.  Dara caught a glimpse of her fellow apprentice, Tyndal, riding through the gurvani without his helmet, his mageblade slashing at the scalps and necks of his foes, his face shifting from battlefield yells to intense smiles as he fought.  He vaulted off of his horse as it stomped on one goblin from behind to pin another to the ground with his blade before blasting a third with a warwand.  Tyndal always seemed so dashing and careless, but Dara had to admit he knew how to fight.  Sarakeem saw him too, and shortly the two were standing side by side, mageblade and bow dispensing lethal punishment to any who challenged them.

But the goblins weren’t helpless, either.  Some shaman of theirs cast an evil blue cloud that enveloped scores of knights, as they tried to regroup for a charge.  The triumphant battle-cries and horn calls turned to screams and wretching.  Dara watched in horror as dozens of armored bodies fell off their horses, while their horses fell dead on top of them.  Some of them bore devices she recognized – Riverlords.  She prayed to the Flame that Sir Festaran was not among them.

At that horrible moment in the battle, it almost looked as if the gurvani would be able to reform against the Riverland knights before they were able to organize themselves.  That’s when Dara spied Rondal leap over the hedge on the far side of the field and lead the infantry in their own charge.  It was less majestic than the horses and lances of the knights, but almost as effective.  As the big shields and flashing swords of the infantry pushed into the goblin army, they kept the right flank from being able to organize.

“That’s it, they’re breaking!” Kyre called excitedly.  Dara saw he was correct.  A large contingent of gurvani survivors, a few hundred at most, began to retreat away from the disastrous encounter.  Dara nodded in amazed agreement.  Rondal’s charge had done more than just harass the goblins.  It gave the Riverlord knights an opportunity to regroup, reform themselves, and conduct a second cavalry charge.

Between the anvil of the infantry and the hammer of the horsemen, the gurvani army was beaten flat.  More and more goblins were taking to their heels or withdrawing in what order they could.  But there were plenty who were staying to fight, even as the day went against them.

Baron Arathanial’s gallant second charge had another important effect, too.  His forces had overcome another shaman, she decided, based on the sudden lack of spells coming from them . . . and a change she felt with her nascent arcane senses.  Something shifted, she realized.  The warmagi’s spells got more intense, she saw, and were doing a lot more damage.

When a particular knot of angry black fur first caught on fire, then slammed against each other until their bodies were twisted and broken, Dara saw just how nasty warmagic could be.

There was one tense moment, as the battle waned: faced with certain slaughter, a large band of goblins broke free from the pounding they were receiving betwixt cavalry and infantry, and charged the redoubt.  The sudden move took the sentries by surprise, and everyone was quickly called back to the wall of the cotyard.  It was a desperate move, but the goblins had little choice compared to the bloody alternative.  They endured flight after flight of arrows and spells from the harried defenders of the cotyard rather than face the blades behind them.

As they got closer and closer, Dara could see that they were a mixture – some smaller, darker gurvani, and some who were appreciably larger and whose fur was not as dark, and thinning in patches.  The larger goblins were better armored, too, wearing looted gear as stout as her own.

Dara could feel the tension in the line as every man shot the charging gurvani as quickly as they could.  There was no time to organize a volley, nor would it have been effective against troops moving so quickly.  Instead the Westwoodmen and other defenders picked their targets and shot for speed.

Still, Dara was only able to get off three quick shots before the gurvani were within striking distance of the wall.  She didn’t even track to see if she’d hit before she drew her next shaft.  When the first few gurvani made it to the sentry knights, picking up the corpses of their smaller fellows and using them to shield against the arrows, she had to stop as friend and foe were too close together.

She saw her brother Kyre draw the long horseman’s sword the Spellmonger had given him at Yule, and she heard other blades come swiftly from their scabbards as more goblins poured in behind the engaged sentries and bows became useless.  One howling warrior kicked a knight in his knee before leaping atop the wall, with his fellows behind him, and began striking with the long axe he carried.  Lady Ithalia’s bow put an arrow in the creature’s throat, but more gurvani climbed over his fallen body to invade the courtyard.

“Dara!  Fall back!” her uncle Keram bellowed as he stabbed at the next dark body to cross over with his infantry sword.  Kyre blocked a strike from another’s mace while Kobb kicked an unbearably ugly goblin’s knee out from under him and bashed his furry face with his boot, before slashing at the next one coming over the wall with his sword.

For a few tense moments, the defenders nearly broke as they struggled to keep the goblins at bay – but Lady Ithalia’s arrows flew unerringly, and the warriors of the Riverlands were resolute.  Larvan climbed atop the wall with the banner and began using the shaft to sweep away the lighter gurvani, and he was joined by a squire with a bloody face and a longsword, but it was inadequate for how badly the goblins wanted into the redoubt.  Enough managed to climb over the wall to turn the cotyard into a dogfight, as more defenders rushed from the rear to reinforce the line.

Dara just stood there, stupefied, the first few seconds she came face-to-face with a goblin without a wall between them.  Indeed, there was no one between her and the ugly little foe.  It was one of the smaller ones, and it had been wounded already, she saw.  An arrow protruded from its shoulder under its leather armor, and its black fur was soaked with blood.  For the tiniest moment she felt empathy for the desperate, wounded creature as it looked around for escape.

But then it screamed defiantly and tried to stab her brother, and her willingness to sympathize with it ended.  Kyre was fighting like mad to keep more from coming over, supporting the other Westwoodmen, when the nasty little goblin leapt at his back with a long, curved knife.

Dara acted automatically.  She’d prepared a few of the spells that Lady Pentandra had taught her for battle – they were ‘hung’, as the warmagi said, ready to spring like a cocked crossbow.  When she saw Kyre’s danger, she didn’t hesitate.  She took three steps whispered the command word that triggered the spell . . . and touched the goblin’s elbow as it reared back to strike.

The power coursed briefly through her hand as the spell’s shape took hold of the goblin.  Instantly it doubled over, vomiting as it fell to its knees.  The Gutbuster Spell, she recalled with satisfaction.  An ideal way to incapacitate an enemy.  As the goblin fell, Dara felt proud of her first battle-cast spell.

Then one of the worst smells she ever imagined filled the air, and she recalled the other effects of the spell.  Losing control of the bowels.

Unfortunately, her pride and disgust kept her from seeing the ugly little gurvan who leapt over the wall and sprang onto her back.

She nearly panicked as she felt one of its furry, greasy hands claw at her face, while the other was trying to beat her in the head with a small mace.  The expression on its face was raw hatred, its slitted eyes blazing as it attacked her.  While none of the strikes were precise enough to avoid her armor, she felt like she was being beaten by a small, murderous child who knew it was only a matter of time before one struck true.

Soot and ashes! Dara thought to herself angrily. I’m fighting for my life!

Her arms reached up to keep the beast at bay, batting aside its mace with her arm while one of her hands instinctively grabbed the gurvan’s long ear . . . and pulled viciously at it.

Hardly a mortal blow, she realized, but it yanked the goblin’s head and shoulders back enough so that it could not quite reach her face with its iron club.  It settled for beating against the offending right arm, the one covered with her thick falconer’s gauntlet.  It screamed and gibbered angrily as she pulled its ear with her right hand . . . and scrambled frantically at her belt for her dagger with her left.

I’m going to die! she lamented in a panic as the ferocious goblin wriggled with pain and anger, keening and snarling terribly.  To let go of its ear would invite a swift death, if she let it.  Yet she couldn’t grip it in her fist forever.

At last her borrowed dagger came free, and though she’d never been trained in its use she’d butchered scores of Frightful’s kills.  She knew what to do with a knife.  With a desperate tug of her right shoulder, she pushed the goblin off balance by pulling hard on its ear . . . and buried her dagger into its side.

It was a nightmarish thing, seeing and feeling a creature in pain and near death struggling on top of you.  But Dara was desperate, too.  More, she was angry.  A deep and dark feeling swept over her, and suddenly she didn’t care one bit how the goblin felt.  She was fighting to survive.  While the goblin struggled above her, Dara wouldn’t let herself go of its ear, nor would she relent with how deeply she stabbed at it.

Still, it would not die.  Indeed, it howled more, and its struggling arms dropped the mace and began clawing blindly frantically at her face and left arm, splashing its own blood and hair all over her, as it sought the dagger that was killing it.  Dara pushed her face as far away from it as she could, but she would . . . not . . . let . . . go.  Her jaw ached as her teeth ground together, but she was determined.  At least as determined as the gurvan she fought.

Thankfully, someone else intervened.  From nowhere she heard a Riverland’s war-cry, over the goblin’s screams, which suddenly stopped.  The ear she held so firmly finally came off in her hands.  With the rest of its head.

A spray of blood and loose goblin hair hit her face, but all resistance fled from the lifeless body.  She shoved the disgusting headless corpse off of her and looked up into the cloudy sky from her back.  The face of Sir Festaran looked back at her, concerned.  Behind him, more Riverlands knights, dismounted, had entered the fray and were turning the tide in quick order.  Their long swords and steel armor made short work of the gurvani who remained.

She glanced over to her family, counting them and making sure that they were not seriously injured.  Her chest heaved like a bellows under her armor, and she had the bitter taste of goblin blood in her teeth.

“Thank you for holding his neck so still, Hawkmaiden,” the Riverlord said, glancing around for more foes nearby.  “It made my strike a simple matter.  Are you injured?” he asked, reaching out a hand to wipe the blood off her face.

Dara swallowed, desperate for a sip of water.  “He knocked me down from behind,” she said, defensively, shaking off his hand.  “I’m fine,” she insisted, feeling embarrassed and self-conscious for a moment.

“I think we can claim the battle, if not yet the day,” he counseled, surveying the field with a knowledgeable eye.  The knights of the Riverlands were driving the last survivors who hadn’t escaped their trap into the fearsome swords and shields of the infantry.  Master Minalan was riding toward the redoubt with Baron Arathanial, Sir Taren, Sire Cei, and his apprentices.

But they were riding through a field of bloody carnage.  Dead and dying goblins were scattered in clumps across the field like clods of turned earth.  The wails of the wounded, men and gurvani, echoed piteously in the damp air.  Already crows and ravens were gathering overhead for an unexpected feast.

“And you survived your first battle,” Festaran said, gently.  “Duin’s blessing on you.”

She knew he meant well by the blessing, and it was especially potent coming from a knight.  But looking around at the blood, death, and suffering, she didn’t feel the divine glory of battle the way the War God was supposed to make you feel.

As she looked down at her borrowed dagger, stained with blood and hair, all she felt was nausea.

Chapter Eight

A Picnic With The Spellmonger

When the last of the organized gangs of goblins had been swept from the field by the thundering hooves of patrolling Riverlords, the teams searching for the dead and wounded went out . . . and casualties began to be carried back to the camp.

That was when Dara realized that there was another side to being a warmage than merely charging into battle.  Nearly every one of the wizards who’d fought immediately began to help tend the wounded warriors being carried back to the courtyard.  Infantrymen brought their comrades on shields, while the cavalry wrapped their lances with their mantles to create make-shift stretchers.  Hundreds of men began pouring into the station, red with blood.

Dara was almost as confused by the aftermath as she had been by the battle.  She didn’t know what to do, and stood there, dumbly, until someone asked her to take a look at someone.  One glance at the soldier’s horrific gut-wound, however, and Dara nearly vomited again.  She would have, if her stomach hadn’t been empty.

“We’ve set up a field hospital at an intact barn, half a mile to the southwest,” one of the infantrymen informed her, when she asked where all the wounded were going.  “There’s a small shrine there, and some of the nuns of the local abbey have lent their aid as nurses.  For all the good it will do,” he said, darkly, as a man crying piteously on a litter nearby gave a gasp and breathed no more.  “We’re rounding up a few wagons and carts to take the worst of them.  But all told, casualties were lighter than expected,” he said, with an optimistic note in his voice.

Dara looked around the courtyard, appalled.  If this was less damage than expected, how bad would things have gotten if the battle had not gone their way?

There were dozens of men crowded in the yard, now, laying sprawled where they’d been placed, awaiting aid, and more arriving all the time.  Sacks of bandages brought along for the inevitable need were depleted, as piles of discarded, bloody clothing took its place.  Scores of men bore lesser wounds from the battle but were able to walk under their own power back to the cottage redoubt before casting themselves in the mud.  Some of their injuries turned Dara’s stomach yet more, when she saw them.  Others were the result of falls or stumbles, sprains and broken bones, which required medical attention before the warrior could return to battle.

There was blood.  There was more blood than Dara thought could exist in the world.  It flowed out of men and goblin alike, staining the trampled mud a malevolent ochre.  There were screams, too, and piteous moans for Trygg Allmother’s grace, cries to their own mothers, and strings of curses as the wounded contended with the pain.

She stumbled from one wounded man to another with a bag of bandages, staring at them blankly, uncertain of what to do in the bloody chaos . . . until Gareth happened by.

The young wizard looked anxious as he flitted from litter to litter, using his witchstone to ascertain the health of the victim in front of him with startling clarity.  He wore a bloodstained apron over his archer’s armor, and carried a bag she discovered was stuffed full of bottles, phials, and parchment packages of herbs.

Gareth may not have been suited for warmagic, but he understood the kind of medical magic useful on the battlefield.  She watched as the mage approached a wounded man, assess his injuries, cast a spell, studied the results, and then directed the attendants to either carry the man to the field hospital for surgery, send him to the aid station nearby for treatment . . . or carry him back to the growing pile of corpses behind the cottage.

“Dara!” he called, when he saw her, and grabbed her elbow.  “Good!  You can help!”

“Not with magic!” she countered, defensively.  “I have no idea what to do with this sort of thing.  Remember, I’m just starting to learn!”

Gareth looked at her thoughtfully.  “Fair enough.  Then stand near, and be prepared to help, at need.  Just do what I tell you to.  And grab a water bottle,” he suggested.  “Dehydration is a problem.  Half of these men have sweated their lives away, today, in this humidity.  Give it to any man who doesn’t have a belly or throat wound.  That includes those who bore the stretcher, else they join the wounded from exertion,” he added.  “Offer every man who passes a drink.”

Dara nodded dumbly, and managed to sling three or four leather water skins around her neck before returning to follow Gareth, who continued his work.  She did her best to supply both victims and attendants with water as best she could, as the magi around her helped a few monks determine who needed what kind of aid.  For most, he would bind their wounds cleverly, after soaking them in spirits, cast a quick spell, and send them on their way.

Several times she fetched more bandages, ropes, spirits, or other supplies from the stockpile near the fireplace, at Gareth’s direction, and she did not hesitate to use the few cantrips she could cast, usually magelight.

Before she knew it, the last of the seriously wounded was packed into the back of a commandeered wagon and was sent rumbling down the road.  She turned around to see who else needed their assistance, but the cotyard was, at last, clear.  Most of the Magical Corps had retired inside the cottage for a brief rest, themselves.

“That was rough!” sighed Gareth.  “I took the battlefield healing magic class at the War College, but I had no idea that it would be that bad!” he said, grimly.

Dara nodded, tiredly.  “What about all those goblin corpses?” she asked, as she nodded toward the scattered bodies lying across the field.

“They’ll draft a couple of teams of peasants to pile them up and burn them,” the scrawny wizard decided.  “Not enough time to bury them.  Not before the carrion birds have their way,” he added, nodding.  Dara glanced back at the ruined field.  Sure enough, crows and ravens were already beginning to descend on the carnage.  She looked away.

“Hungry?” Gareth asked, grinning wearily.  “We’ll need to eat, no matter how repulsive that sounds at the moment.  I’m no strategist, but I’m guessing this skirmish was the warm-up for the assault on the siege.  We took enough of their surplus troops in the pursuit to keep them from harassing us while we reform.  And likely delayed an assault on Cambrian Castle.”

“Won’t they know we’re coming, now?” she asked, confused.

“Well, yes,” Gareth admitted.  “But we’ll attack long before they can call potential reinforcements.  Now that we’ve disposed of a tithe of them, the odds are a little more firmly in our favor.  They must fight a defensive, as well as offensive battle.  Nor are they paying as close attention to Castle Cambrian.  They may no longer range at will around its walls, with all of these knights around.  If they turn to attack us, they may lose the siege.  If they don’t . . . well, a couple more raids like that, and they won’t be able to stand against us,” he boasted.

“You seem to know a lot for a . . .”

“Mere spark?” Gareth grinned, using the term the Magical Corps were called.  “Oh, my failure at warmagic wasn’t due to my inability to grasp the concepts, nor to cast the proper spells.  I understood all of that . . . intellectually.  But being a warmage requires a certain . . . killer spirit that I just do not possess.”  He sounded disappointed by the admission, but Dara found it both endearing and refreshing.

“I think I understand,” she nodded, as they made their way over to the corner of the courtyard that had been turned into a rough field kitchen by the simple expedient of setting up two big campfires and boiling water.  Most of the soldiers who were returning from the field, particularly the infantry, threw down their gear in the rain and began hungrily devouring the dried meat, cheese, and hardtack they dug out of their bags.  Nobleman or churl, each of them was equally stained with blood, mud, and black fur.

Dara was trying to remember where she’d stowed her own pack when she saw Master Minalan and a squadron of his warmagi ride to the gate of the courtyard and dismount, serious expressions on their faces.  Thankfully, she was close enough to hear him as he began giving orders.

“No more than a half-hour for luncheon,” he ordered as he dismounted his rouncey.  Tyndal put a water bottle in his hand, and he took a gracious drink.  “We’ve chased them back to their lines bloodied, but we want to strike them again before they’ve had an opportunity to reform their lines and prepare defenses.”

“The cavalry is already regrouping,” Baron Arathanial agreed as he was assisted down from his destrier by his squire.  “They will be ready for another engagement once they’ve eaten and rested a bit.”

“This is not favorable weather for a cavalry charge, Your Excellency,” Sir Festaran observed.  “The footing is treacherous.  And did you see those little dog carts they’re using?”

“What?” Dara murmured, confused.

“Oh, you probably couldn’t see them from here.  Apparently the goblins have discovered cavalry,” Gareth chuckled, mirthlessly.  “They converted a few wheelbarrows into little chariots, pulled by dogs.  They ride three or four at a time in them.  They were almost comical, until they started shooting.  No match for one of our knights, though,” he decided.

“Dogs?” Dara demanded.  “They’re forcing dogs to fight?”

“So do we,” Gareth shrugged.  “And horses.”

“Sure, but . . . well, I expected dogs to be more loyal!” she snorted in disgust.

“They are loyal . . . to whomever feeds them and raises them,” Gareth pointed out, thoughtfully.  “Despite their hatred for humanity, the gurvani are not unfeeling, emotionless monsters.  They have families and children, wives and husbands, just like we do.  And they’ve used dogs for centuries, the same way we do.  You have to admit, they do look a little canine,” Gareth observed.

“I want the rangers scouting south of here,” Minalan was continuing to say, as his commanders gathered around him.  And wide cavalry patrols – we don’t need to get surprised by band coming back from a supply raid.  I want the Magical Corps preparing to cast supporting spells for the assault, and I want at least a company of infantry guarding and supporting this redoubt as our retreat position,” he instructed.

There were more questions from his officers – everyone seemed to have one that only Master Minalan could answer.  Dara was gratified to see how quickly and adeptly the Spellmonger seemed to command them.  He was entirely confident, though the anxiety of his responsibilities was writ large on his face.

“Here,” Gareth said, pushing a piece of cheese in her hand.  “Eat.  And drink some water.  If we’re going to be doing support magic, we’re going to need our strength.”

Dara didn’t get more than a few words with her master, as he wolfed down a morsel, drank watered wine, and continued to issue orders.  He spent just a few moments consulting with Lady Pentandra over her maps before he turned and noticed her.

“So how are you faring, Dara?” he asked, kindly.

“Well enough,” she decided.  “Goblins are uglier than I thought.”

That made her master chuckle.  “Believe me, these are the pretty ones.  Some of the shamans are ghastly.  We’ll need some more reconnaissance with your bird, before we attack the siege.  Are you up to that?” he asked, handing her an apple.

Dara shrugged as she took it.  “Any time you need me, Master.”

“As soon as we ride out, then,” Minalan sighed, tiredly, as he looked around the cottage at the relatively cheerful Magical Corps.  “That was the fun part.  Now it’s time for the hard part.”

“Be careful, Master!” Dara said, fervently.  Minalan smiled, but didn’t respond.  Not to her, anyway.  Instead he closed his eyes, probably talking to someone important, mind-to-mind.

The apple looked delicious, suddenly, but Dara  realized she had other responsibilities, too.  She took a few moments while everyone else was eating to check on her pony, Doughty, and her falcon.  Both beast and bird were anxious, but well and no worse for the battle, and she spent a few moments soothing each of them . . . until she heard the shouts and commands to mount.

Most the army began to form on the battered field in front of the courtyard, as the rain slowed to a drizzle.  Hundreds of horses’ butts stared at her while the knights got organized, and the foot soldiers of the infantry formed up behind them.

The knights magi and warmagi were in the vanguard, she learned.  Minalan wanted his most ferocious and adept warriors at the tip of the spear of the army.  Dara watched Tyndal, Rondal, and Festaran take their positions at the front of the column, surrounded by other adepts: Sarakeem, Lady Ithalia, Jendaran, and even Lady Pentandra’s cousin, Planus.

“Don’t worry,” Pentandra said, from behind her, as she watched the formation start toward the distant castle.  “These aren’t the worst odds Minalan has faced.  But he has his role in the battle, and we have ours.  I’m going to be getting the Magical Corps ready to start casting spells.  You,” she added, with emphasis, “are responsible for scouting with Frightful, to aid our strategies.  It will take at least an hour for the troops to get to the battlefield; it would be lovely if you could make sure they aren’t attacked from their flanks unexpectedly while they march.”

Dara spent the next hour flying Frightful back and forth over the slowly advancing column of men and horses as they approached the castle.  Though Frightful’s keen eye spotted several small knots of gurvani hidden along the route, she could pass along the information to Lady Pentandra, who was able to relay it to Minalan, who dispatched riders to occupy the foe.

As the army approached the castle, however, things got tenser.  Frightful’s safe position in the sky, among the carrion birds that dodged her, gave Dara an impressive perspective on the battle below.  The goblin ranks, once formed up solidly against the castle, were spasming, now, as they faced a force on two sides.  A great many of the gurvani below were shifting around to face the new attackers.

If they expected a sudden charge, they were disappointed, Dara realized.  Frightful’s watchful eye became bored when Minalan’s army halted and waited in front of the gurvani, the small but deadly force menacing the goblins by their mere presence.  Then Minalan made them wait, occasionally harassing them with arrows or spells.

The goblins attempted to get them to break ranks – no doubt the solid line of armored horsemen, standing at the ready, was an intimidating sight.  The little dog-carts Gareth had told her about were sent to harass the ranks, but the adept archers in the vanguard made that an ineffective strategy.

The Riverlords were patient and disciplined.  They held their ranks in the drizzle while the goblins seemed increasingly anxious about the smaller force that faced them.

Then it happened.  The gurvani lost their nerve, and from one side a ragged band of a thousand charged against the knights.  Frightful watched as they ran, and then slowed, but then were joined by another band.

That seemed to be the signal her master was waiting for.  When the gurvani attackers had crossed two-thirds of the distance to the knights, the brave Riverlords couched their lances.  Dara watched through Frightful’s eyes as Baron Arathanial’s banner led the way in a devastating charge.

Battle had a certain beauty, when viewed from afar, Dara reflected as she watched the unfolding attack.  The wedge of horsemen carved a path through the roiled mass of black and iron like a cloth sweeping away crumbs.  The gurvani were not able to stand such a charge, especially when they were on the move and disorganized.

Dara was amazed by how adeptly the Riverlords practiced their deadly craft.  Arathanial’s troops swept the attackers from the field, then buried itself into the legions the gurvani had assembled to face the Spellmonger’s army.

That was too much for even the massed might of the Riverlords; Arathanial’s banner lodged three ranks deep into the defending army.  The Riverlords were deadly even when they weren’t charging, however.  Dara saw how the knights dropped their lances and drew swords, chewing into all who stood against them hand-to-hand . . . and frequently hoof-to-head.

The gurvani did not, apparently, have the same affection for horses as they did dogs, Dara noted, as she directed Frightful to sweep lower over the battle for a closer look.  Nor were horses fond of goblins.  The hooves of the destriers and chargers the Riverlords rode reared and flashed, their mud-stained legs quickly turning red with blood.  When the goblins faced horsemen on the field, they lost.

Then Frightful’s ears heard the horns sounding the recall, and the knights began to withdraw back to their reserves.  The goblin army they left behind them was damaged.  From the air the muddy expanse that had received the brunt of the cavalry charge was a sodden mass of dying gurvani, with precious few armored knights lying among them.

“Bring Frightful out from directly over the battle,” Dara heard Pentandra whisper into her human ear.  “We’re about to unleash some nastiness, and I don’t want her to get hurt.”

Dara nodded, her body feeling distant and immaterial, compared to the whisper of wind on her wings and the feel of the occasional raindrop on Frightful’s back.  In truth, the falcon did not like flying in the rain at all, but she dutifully complied with Dara’s commands and began climbing.

That gave her an excellent vantage to see what unfolded next.  Even through her bird’s eyes she could feel the pulse below, as powerful spells were activated against the gurvani.  Chaos erupted in a dozen spots within the horde almost at once.

Then, while the main army was contending with the variety of magic spells flung against them – there were pockets where goblins attacked each other, fell in a stupor, screamed wildly in pain, and other disruptions – a small force of cavalry suddenly reversed course and charged . . . behind the goblins’ lines!

Dara watched breathlessly as a band of knights a hundred-strong pushed themselves past the struggling goblins and swept the space betwixt army and castle clear of attackers.  It was a sudden and clearly unexpected assault, though it didn’t seem to do much . . .

Then Dara realized it had done exactly what it was intended.  For when the Riverlords swept the space behind the goblin army clear, the portcullis and drawbridge suddenly opened, and the castle began spewing knights and warmagi from the gate.

The sortie from the castle was even more unexpected by the goblins, Dara could see.  It wasted no time in attacking the goblin rear, pushing it forward into those who faced Minalan’s force.  Spells were flung from both sides, and while the gurvani shamans seemed to be able to fend off a few, far more ended up infecting the horde.

That’s when the Riverlords, now reformed and lined up, began charging the horde from the other side, just as the rain began to pick up again.  Only instead of pushing straight through the increasingly dense goblin line, the Riverlords attacked, withdrew, and attacked again.  They were using their lances and horses to chew into the front of the line like a hungry kid with a sweet bun.

It was fascinating, viewing the battle from up here.  She watched as Master Minalan deployed his warmagi against the other flank of the goblin horde.  If the Riverlords chewed on the enemy’s line, the warmagi Minalan led ate away at the gurvani like acid.

It took ten minutes, but from Dara was able to watch a full third of the goblin horde fall under the combined assaults.  Beleaguered infantry – commoners like herself, she realized – made a mad dash from the castle behind the safety of the Riverlords and made their escape.  Others, armed for defense, stood and fought any stragglers who’d escaped the cavalry charges.

Sire Cei was leading a few squadrons of horsemen through the fray, chasing after the goblins’ dog-cart cavalry like they were piglets escaped from a pen.

Frightful’s ears began to hurt, with the noise from the battle.  That many men and goblins screaming out their efforts as they fought and died created a lot of din; the occasional and unexpected sounds of warmagi also disturbed the air.  Loud bangs, hisses, and noises like lightning in a chamber pot echoed over the field.

But where the human warriors stood and fought, they tended to win.  Not always, but usually.  The advantage the goblins had in numbers did not help them, when they were being attacked from three sides.  In fact, Dara witnessed several times when parts of the horde seemed to get in the way of other units, occasionally fighting among themselves.

Even though the rain picked up – much to Frightful’s annoyance – the day seemed well on the way to be won . . . when her falcon suddenly became so frightened that she nearly threw Dara out of her head.  A shadow crossed over her, a shadow so large that, even in the gloom of the rainstorm, it seemed to turn day into twilight.

It was, Dara realized with terror, the shadow of a dragon.

Chapter Nine

Facing The Dragon

Dara could not control Frightful as the malevolent shadow crossed overhead, and the strange stench that followed it filled her sensitive nostrils.  Her falcon panicked, and took to wing back toward Dara’s location at once, shaking off her rapport.  Frightful didn’t respond to commands, no matter how loudly Dara shouted them at her.  She resisted Dara’s attempts at forcing her rapport with the bird in ways she never thought the falcon was capable of.

Dara was used to a number of emotions from Frightful: boredom, happiness, playfulness, moodiness, love, affection, and the ever-present hunger.  But this was the first time the falcon had ever felt fear at such a primal level, and it was an emotion that blasted through their connection to infect Dara and compound her own terror.

Then Dara heard the horrific shriek and noxious smell behind her, and the darkness and gloom over the castle lit up as bright as day.  Frightful could feel the heat on her tailfeathers as she fled, and the smell of smoke and brimstone choked her.  Dara abandoned any effort to control her.  She didn’t need to, she realized.  Flying away from that dragon as fast as her wings could carry her suddenly sounded like a brilliant idea.

Once she was certain Frightful had calmed down enough to guide her back to the cotyard, she withdrew her consciousness and opened her eyes.

“Dragon!” Dara bellowed, panting and sweating.

“We know, dear,” Pentandra said, gently, as she overlooked the map.  “Try not to panic everyone.”  Then she closed her eyes, apparently speaking mind-to-mind about the matter to someone important.

Dara did her best to catch her breath and calm herself.  There was really a dragon out there, she realized.  A force so powerful that it made all lesser beings quail with its very presence.  Everyone around her looked anxious and nervous in entirely new ways.

Then she heard its loud, screechy, roar in the distance and Dara shuddered from the top of her head to the bottom of her feet.

Focus, Dara! She reproved herself.  This is a battle, by the Flame!  And the dragon was the entire reason they brought you here!

It took a few moments, and one of the mediation exercises she’d learned for magic, but soon she was once again in possession of herself.  And she knew what needed to be done.

She pulled herself out of the stack of parcels and supplies she’d been reclining on, and dug through her gear where she’d stashed it against a wall.  It didn’t take long to find the bag with the long box in it.  Dara hurriedly unwrapped the package and opened the lid, exposing the long, elegant, gleaming blade within.

She picked it up in her arms and cradled it like a wounded animal, stumbling outside to the courtyard.  Her brothers and father looked on curiously, having recently returned from a quick patrol, as she took the Thoughtful Knife over to the knee-high stone wall and set it down.  She took the control stone out of the top and stepped back – then stopped.  She hadn’t been ordered to fly the Knife yet, she realized.

“Make sure no one steals that,” she told Kyre, as she headed back inside.  She paused only long enough to hold out her fist to let Frightful land on it.  She quickly fed the bird a pebble of dried meat and praised her, while she sent soothing thoughts into her scared little mind.  Once she replaced the falcon’s hood, she settled down, feeling much more safe and secure.  What the bird couldn’t see, it didn’t feel threatened by.

Dara devoutly wished she had a hood.

Instead, she deposited the falcon on the make-shift perch she’d made out of a broken chair, and reported to Pentandra.  As soon as the wizard opened her eyes and saw her, Dara nodded.

“The Thoughtful Knife is ready to fly,” she reported.

“Good thinking,” Pentandra nodded.  “Take it up and make ready.  I have no idea what Minalan has planned, so best be prepared for most anything.”  Then she closed her eyes again.

Dara returned to her comfy spot, stretching a bit before she resumed her position.  Only this time she held the round control stone of the Knife in her palms.  Taking a deep breath, she allowed the stone to suck her mind inside it . . . and she was once again back within the deadly weapon.

Taking flight with the Knife was easier and faster than convincing Frightful to climb.  It didn’t feel tiredness, disrespect, or annoyance.  In fact, it didn’t “feel” anything but a desire for speed and a hunger for blood.  It was like riding a particularly large and dangerous horse, Dara decided, as the Knife soared toward the burning castle.

She flew overhead and watched with horror as the huge beast began digging into the fortress like a bear looking for honey in a rotten tree.  Huge piles of ruined wall tumbled down as the wooden interior blazed.  Thankfully most of the besieged had escaped before the dragon arrived, but as it was there were still plenty of defenders who died, ablaze in dragonfire.

She did what she could to help them, but there wasn’t much.  She focused her attacks on the goblin archers who were scattered around the periphery of the castle, eliminating snipers who were eager to clear the burning battlements of the last defenders.  After her hours of practice around Sevendor she was actually quite good at sending the Knife zooming around the place.

Nor, she found, did she have any problem with slicing through goblins.  The view from the Knife was frightening, objectively speaking – she was using the wide, sharp blade to slay the gurvani at a high rate of speed.  But not only was her velocity too quick for her eyes to dwell on the damage she’d done, but she’d had plenty of experience gutting rabbits and rodents for Frightful.  She was no stranger to blood, even if she didn’t like it.

But the Thoughtful Knife did like it, she noticed, almost at once.  From the first strike against the gurvani, the artifact seemed to come more alive and alert through their connection, as if it was waking up.  Flying for practice, she realized, was different than flying in battle, at least to the Knife.  She didn’t know how it knew the stakes were high, but it seemed delighted in the prospect of slaughtering as many goblins as it could.

Once many of the snipers and pickets on the far side of the ruined castle had been destroyed, Dara felt the Knife pull away from her mind, seeking more violence.  Dara did her best to reassert control, and directed the deadly flying blade back around the south side of the castle, where a full-pitched battle was going on during the dragon’s attack.

The Knife sensed the massed gurvani below and leapt at them like a cat pouncing on a nest of mice.  The densely-packed formation made choosing a target easy.  The Knife pulled her to strike one portion of the gurvani horde in particular, as it dove to ground level.  She allowed it to do so, though she was a bit embarrassed that a weapon was a better strategist than she was.

The Thoughtful Knife leveled off just before it struck the horde, and then it was among them.  The wide wings of the blade caught one neck, or head, or shoulder after the other in its deadly embrace.  Wooden shields held against it shattered, and it bored through bronze shields like dry wood.  Everywhere the Knife passed, a gory, bloody path opened up in the gurvani ranks.

Dara was a bit disgusted by the carnage.  But the ancient Alka Alon weapon was in its element: this was what it had been designed to do.  One furry warrior after another was sliced and chopped with the pass, and when the Knife emerged on the other side, it flipped over, reversed direction, and repeated the arc at a different angle.  Another row of goblins fell, like wheat at the harvest.  Another bloody explosion sowed panic and despair in their ranks.

Dara was just completing her third gory pass when she realized that the Knife was not responding as sensitively to her commands as it had when she started.  It behaved more as an excited hound, struggling against a leash.

A panic settled over her mind when she realized that the Alka Alon artifact did not care if the bodies it hewed were goblin or human.  It merely wanted to fly and kill, kill and fly.  It took nearly every ounce of will to keep it from plunging back into the battle a fourth time, when it made it clear to Dara that it didn’t mind slicing through the heavy armor of Riverlands knights any more than it did goblins.

But she managed, with an effort so great she could feel sweat on her brow even while she was in the Knife.  Like pulling a straining dog to heel, the Knife slowly bent to her insistence, and soon was zooming back into the darkened sky.

From that position, Dara could see the ruin the dragon had wrought in the short time it had visited Cambrian Castle.  The keep was in flames, the towers shattered into the bailey, below.  The beast kept digging into it, its head darting to snatch at those few unfortunates who were left within.  The mighty tails swept the courtyard below, knocking over sheds and outbuildings, men and horses without even noticing.

There was magic going off all around it, the Knife showed her helpfully, but none of it seemed to even get the dragon’s attention.  Dara watched as Master Minalan and his warmagi assaulted the flaming castle and tried their best to attack the beast through the wreckage . . . some of which was still in the process of falling around them.  Spells were being fired and powerful arcane forces blasted into the great beast’s back, just under the wing, as the best High Magi in the world contended with the beast.  Concentrated all in one spot, the arcane emissions from the warmagi exploded against the dragon’s hide with a force she could feel through the Knife.

But while the attack hurt the dragon enough to distract its attention, it did not seem more than annoyed at the assault.  In fact, as it turned to see what irritated it, the massive tail jerked . . . and slapped soundly against Master Minalan and the other warmagi attacking it from behind.

Dara watched in horror as her master’s horse came apart under the impact of the log-sized tail, sending Minalan’s body flying through the air . . . among others.  The wide sweep of the dangerous tail was devastating.

Her master.  The Spellmonger had fallen!

Dara didn’t realize that the Knife was moving for a moment.  But she found herself in a dive, headed straight for the beast’s heart.  With a bloodthirsty scream of vengeance, she let the terrible hunger of the artifact take over.  If the Knife wanted to kill, there was plenty of dragon to sate its hunger.

At the last moment, the dragon shifted its stance, and one of its massive, sail-like wings got in the way of the attack.  The Knife continued downward, undeterred, increasing its speed.  Dara prepared for the savage impact of the flying blade slicing through the wing . . . but when the moment came, the Knife failed her.

As sharp as it was, as fast as it was, the Thoughtful Knife was inadequate to the task of cutting through even the thin membrane of the wing.  Dara found herself flailing in the sky as the impact against the unyielding flesh deflected the blow.  She was sure she’d felt the blade bit into the flesh – she was certain! – but it hadn’t been enough to penetrate.  Only enough to give the dragon’s wing purchase and leverage – and throw her into the sky.

It took several moments for her to regain control of the Knife.  Unlike when she flew Frightful, there was no emotional feedback involved in the experience.  The Knife was not afraid.  It wasn’t confused.  It was just temporarily disoriented, and not at all discouraged by the failed attack.

There was one other advantage, she observed, as she finally righted the flying blade and held it stationary in the sky.  The Knife didn’t have an olfactory sense.  That was a blessing from the Flame.  The stench she’d smelled through Frightful’s nose had been the worst thing she’d ever remembered smelling.  After the morning’s battle at the cotyard, that was saying something.

Dara was about to try a second run at the dragon when she felt a hand on her disembodied shoulder, and heard a whisper in her ear.

“Dara, is there any way you can persuade that thing to get its head up?” Pentandra asked, quietly.

Dara nodded, and focused her attention back on the Knife.  She didn’t know what it might take to get the dragon to look up.  Right now it was rooting around in the courtyard for stray warmagi and knights, its head level with the ground.  She dove again, only instead of trying to stab the thing she tried flying by its head to get its attention.

After the third pass, she came to the unfortunate conclusion that the beast simply wasn’t interested in something the comparative size of a horsefly.  Not when there were so many tasty horses lying around.

“It’s ignoring me!” she said, aloud, as she tried to fly close enough to slice at the thing’s eyeball – surely its eyes must be vulnerable, Dara reasoned.  Only the moment the Knife was near, the eyelid of the titanic worm snapped shut.  The Thoughtful Knife rebounded harmlessly away from it, forcing Dara to re-assert her control yet again.  “I got it to blink, but that’s about it!” she wailed in frustration.

“Bide, then,” Pentandra’s voice said in her ear.  “We’re working on a plan.  Head up over the castle and wait,” she commanded.  Dara nodded and complied . . . difficult to do, when her weapon wanted to return to the attack.

A moment later, she heard Gareth’s voice in her other ear.

“The Magical Corps has a plan,” he informed her.  “Lady Pentandra is organizing it now.  They’re going to try to energize the rainclouds into a thunderhead,” he said, ambitiously.  “It’s complicated, but if Minalan can get it to raise its head . . .”

“Master Minalan is alive?” she asked, with a gasp, as she brought the Knife to a halt, and began circling over the castle.

“For the moment,” Gareth answered.  “But he’s trying to push its head up into the clouds.  Where the storm will be.”

Dara wasn’t certain what exactly that would accomplish, so she concentrated on her part.  She kept the Knife circling placidly overhead, slowly surveying the battle below.  Though it continued ferociously, the presence of the massive worm in the burning castle lent a certain panicked quality to the scene, she decided.  In fact, the flaming stones of Castle Cambrian illuminated the battle with sinister flickering that seemed to grow brighter as the clouds above grew even darker.

The feedback she got from the Knife was by no means close to the sensations she received from Frightful, but it dutifully informed her of the gathering storm.  Magic was flying all around the Knife as it circled.  Dara shifted to magesight to appreciate the complex series of arcane constructions that was shaping and molding the very air around her.

Whatever Minalan and the warmagi did on the ground must have worked, she decided a moment later, when the dragon suddenly reared on its hind legs and stuck its head straight up in the air, emitting a mighty – and mightily irritated – bellow.  While she circled around its back she watched as a powerful shaft shot up from the ground, its flight augmented by magic, and buried itself under the dragon’s chin.

It didn’t do anything, Dara realized with disappointment.  It didn’t do a damned thing! The dragon merely shook its head and continued to bellow in annoyance.

Then in an instant, the powerful storm spell overhead coalesced into a magically focused point.  Dara felt the shift in the atmosphere as the air around the knife suddenly ionized, flooded with magical power.  A second later, the point spat forth a powerful bolt of lightning that connected it with the dragon, below.

Dara was amazed at the effect.  The dragon spasmed and contorted, it’s angry eyes wide and crazed – but then they closed.  And the dragon fell, dead or stunned from the impressive bolt of electricity from the sky.  The magi struck it with lightning!  Not even that thing could withstand that!

She was about to cheer, when she realized with horror that while the dragon was collapsing before her eyes, the giant hulk of its body was tumbling inconveniently through the south curtain of the wall, out of the castle, proper . . . and onto the field below.

Where a battle continued to rage.

Goblin and Riverlord alike abandoned their fights and fled for their lives as the stinking body fell upon the muddy, bloody battlefield, settling in a spot that had recently been occupied by the center of the goblin army.

Not all of them were successful, she saw.  But the sudden interruption effectively ended the battle, as it had been fought.  The goblins were no longer even remotely organized to fight.  As the dragon’s spasms caused wing, feet, and tail to jerk uncontrollably it did yet more damage to the combined armies.

That is one nasty mess! Dara remarked to herself as she surveyed the scene.  It looked like what happened when a child smashed an anthill with a stone.

At first she was elated at the feat, and relieved she’d not been called upon to face the beast, and fail at the task.  But then she realized that the mighty worm was not slain.  Its massive chest still rose and fell, though it was not otherwise acting alive.  There was still work to be done, she knew.

“It’s just stunned,” Gareth helpfully confirmed in her ear, a moment later.  “Trygg’s grace!  Not even a lightning bolt can kill that thing?” he asked in disbelief.

“It’s tough,” Dara agreed, absently.  She was concentrating on watching over the remaining warmagi who were now leaping through the hole the dragon had made in the wall and descending upon its lifeless body.  There were still plenty of goblins about, in small clumps or wandering around, dazed, at the sudden turn in the battle.  She didn’t want Tyndal or Rondal or Master Minalan to get stabbed in the back by one on their way to the dragon.  “I hit it a couple of times.  As hard as I could.  Even the wings are too thick for the Thoughtful Knife.”

“Really?” Gareth asked, nervously.  “We were counting on that as our secret weapon!”

“Better find another one,” Dara sighed, resigned.  “The Knife isn’t going to work on the dragon.”

“But it will work on goblins,” Gareth countered.  “We just got word that Sir Roncil’s squadron of horse is pinned down on the left by a company of gurvani infantry – the big ones,” he added, unnecessarily.  “The hobgoblins.  He’s cut off from the rest of his unit . . . can you help?”

“On my way,” Dara agreed, turning the Knife around in orientation.

There it was, she saw.  A small cluster of armored knights valiantly defending themselves from ten times their number of goblin infantry.  Dara wanted to see the foe more closely, and was about to make the Knife descend, when it helpfully magnified the scene of the battle below.

“Hey!” she shouted in surprise.

“What? Gareth asked, alarmed.

“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head.  “It just did something I didn’t know it could do.  Bide,” she ordered.

The view she perceived now showed a much closer picture of the fight.  Gareth was correct: the gurvani who were angrily battling the horsemen were not like the ugly little beast who’d jumped on her back that morning.  These were far larger, better armored, and their fur was a more uniform shade of black.  They wielded heavy iron maces or swords, and they fought with far more organization than the goblins who’d assaulted the cottage earlier in the day.

As she pulled back her perspective, to check the status of Sir Roncil’s desperate unit, she caught her breath: there, among the other knights fighting from horseback, was the familiar surcoat of Sir Festaran.

Her breath caught in her throat as she watched him valiantly attack a vicious-looking gurvan who tried to pull him from his horse, first kicking him in the face with his boot, and then slicing through his shoulder with his cavalry sword.

He fought so well, she observed for a moment as she assessed the scene.  He never hesitated to strike, and his blows connected with elegant efficiency.  No doubt his talent for magical estimation was at play, she considered, as the young mage knight’s mind calculated and estimated the best possible place for his sword to strike the abundant enemy.  There was a look of grim determination on his face as he pushed forward through the foe to rescue one of his fellows from a trio of goblins.

“All right,” Dara declared, “I’m going in!”

Before Gareth could answer, the Knife was plunging with the speed of her thought.  She felt the liveliness of the weapon rise, as it sensed her deadly intent.  Bloodlust, she recognized.  Not the common hunger of a falcon, but the single-minded purpose of a weapon built to slay.

This time, Dara didn’t try to restrain the Knife’s desires.  She allowed it to line up the targets she selected as she dove, only using her will to keep it from harming her allies on the field.  When she let the rabid dog free of its leash, the Thoughtful Knife reveled in the opportunity to slay.

The Knife went slicing through the black-furred foe at the bottom of its descent, obliterating a dozen or more with the shock of its speed alone.  Dara felt the Knife twist in mid-flight and present the broad side of its blade as it blasted into the next throng of gurvani.  The momentum and the angle of the attack was devastating.  Yet the Knife was not done.

It pulled straight up after the first attack, gaining speed and then flipping again and returning earthward with additional momentum.  The next pass carved a gory path between the stranded knights and the rest of their comrades, and the next cautioned any goblin from filling the gap.

In the next few moments Dara felt the Knife’s keen hunger to kill drag her consciousness to new opportunities.  The rank behind the knights, protecting what was left of the goblins’ left flank, seemed prime for harvest, according to the Knife.  It took a few seconds for the weapon to line itself up properly, but a moment later it was blasting through the thickest part of the army, leaving a bloody trail of death and destruction behind.

“That’s . . . they made it back, Dara!” Gareth said, a note of awe in his voice, as someone reported the result to him from the field.  “Good work!”

Dara felt elated . . . but she also felt the Knife’s enthusiasm for more blood fill her.  She was looking around for more opportunities to use the devastating weapon when once again Gareth whispered in her ear.

“Stand down,” he ordered.  “The Spellmonger is on the field, now, assessing the dragon situation.  He’d like to do so without risk of an accidental haircut.”

Dara sighed but nodded, enforcing her will on the unruly artifact.  The Knife wanted to keep playing.  She contented it with merely flying, fast and high, over the rainy field below while her master worked.

Soon the warmagi were congregating near to the unconscious dragon’s mighty head.  The beast had settled on its chest, its great wings unfurled over the field like huge awnings, it’s tail curled behind it . . . still twitching dangerously.

Once she was firmly in control of the Knife, Gareth spoke to her again.

“Minalan wants you to hit the dragon hard, in the head, as hard and fast as you can.  If I didn’t mention it, he wants you to do it hard.”

“I couldn’t even get through its wing!” she complained.

“He wants you to try,” Gareth emphasized.

Dara sighed, frustrated, but began a steep descent, urging the Knife forward as fast as it could go.  She formed the idea of what she wanted in her mind, and the Thoughtful Knife interpreted her intent . . . but it didn’t hesitate to plow through another company of gurvani, gathered on the south side of the dragon, before it hit the thing as hard as it could.

Much to her dismay, the Knife’s fastest speed and most direct attack did little more than bury the point in the dragon’s thick hide.  Not even deep enough to draw blood.

Angrily, Dara urged the Knife backward, and then slammed it into the same spot again, with similar effect.

“Bide!” Gareth instructed her.  “Master Minalan is thinking of a plan.”  A moment later he returned.  “He says land the Knife near him and wait.”

Dara nodded curtly, and slowed the speed of the weapon to a near crawl.  She picked out the form of her rain-soaked master on the field, standing near this brave warmagi, and set the Knife down.

It was a relief to relax control of the thing, she realized.  She’d balled her fists so tightly that they ached, now, and the pain in her shoulders from the strain of her contact with the Knife was tremendous.

“Water?” Gareth asked, helpfully.  Dara nodded, opening her eyes for just a moment.  They, too, hand been held closed too tightly.  She gratefully accepted the waterskin and drank three great swallows before she returned it.  Gareth studied her face, looking concerned.  “How much more of this can you keep up?”

“I’m fine,” she dismissed.  “But the Knife, it’s . . . vicious!”

“So the legends say,” he nodded.  “You seem to have mastered its use,” he added.  “Initial reports from the field say you’ve slain hundreds.”  His voice had a tone of awe in it.

“It’s pretty bloody,” she agreed, shaking out her cramped fingers.  “I try not to think about it,” she lied.  “I wish it were as effective on the dragon, though.”

“Minalan has a plan,” Gareth said, confidently.  “The more snowstone we get next to that thing, the more susceptible it is to our spells.  Every man who carried a pebble here from Sevendor is throwing them at the worm.  That should bring down the thaumaturgical resistance of it.  I hope,” he added.

“Me, too!” Dara agreed.  Pentandra chose that moment to look over at them.

“Minalan is asking for you to fly the Knife at the dragon again, Dara,” she informed her.  “But slowly, this time.”

“Slowly?” Gareth asked, before she could.  “Pentandra, if she hit it that hard to begin with, and it didn’t penetrate its armor, how would going slowly do it?”

“Because Minalan doesn’t want you to attack the dragon,” Pentandra answered, sharply.  “He wants you to take it inside the dragon.  He’s placed a piece of snowstone on the Knife which he hopes will provide some vulnerability to it.”

“What’s that supposed to do?” Gareth demanded.  “There are already pebbles of snowstone all around it!”

“Not inside it,” Pentandra corrected, patiently.  “Minalan wants Dara to fly the Thoughtful Knife through its mouth . . . and straight down its throat!”

Chapter Ten

Dragonslayer

Dara gulped as she stared at the hideous, gigantic face of the unconscious dragon.  A row of arrows had been neatly shot at the beast’s upper lip, each shaft equipped with a pebble of snowstone.  That, and the pile of white pebbles around it, had allowed the warmagi to prop open the mighty jaw of the beast slightly – only slightly – but wide enough to admit the Thoughtful Knife.

Dara took one final deep breath before she pushed the Knife between the dark gray lips of the beast.  Darkness enveloped it at once . . . but the Knife adjusted its magical perception, and soon Dara could see three rows of teeth as long as her borrowed dagger.  The cavern of the dragon’s mouth was roomy enough for the Knife to fly without touching a thing . . . but it was almost as thickly armored as the dragon’s exterior hide.

The throat at the back of the throat, however, was a lighter, more vulnerable-looking tissue, Dara noted.  She began pushing the Knife through the sphincter of the worm’s great throat, hoping the sharp blades were doing something when they touched the sides.

Apparently they were, Dara figured a moment later, as the muscles of the throat spasmed around the foreign object.  The pressure of the muscles on the exterior of the Knife was powerful, but Dara wasn’t concerned.  The Knife was magically hardened with Alka Alon enchantments, after being fashioned from some unknown but nearly invulnerable material.  Whatever else happened, she was reasonably certain it couldn’t be damaged.

But the spasms did slow her movement.

“I’m feeling some resistance,” she reported to Gareth.  “The throat isn’t as big as you’d think.  On the inside,” she added.

“How far back are you?”

“Only about six feet, give or take,” she decided.  “It’s hard to judge, in here.”

Dara soon discovered another problem.  Once she’d directed the Knife within the body of the dragon, her connection to it began to falter.

“Oh, Smoke and Ashes!” she swore, as she felt the contact lag.  “I’m having a hard time keeping in contact.”

“It’s the thaumaturgical resistance,” Gareth answered, reluctantly.  “Minalan attached a piece of snowstone to the Knife to help, but it’s . . . just do your best.  Are you where you need to be?”

“Almost,” Dara said, exerting her will to keep the connection to the weapon intact.  “All right, I’m as close as I can – what?” she asked in surprise, as the Knife started to tumble.  The dragon’s throat was spasming again, she realized.  Only this time it seemed a lot more deliberate.  The Knife tumbled as the powerful muscles clamped down on it . . . but while the pressure was disorientating, the spasm did reveal something important: blood.

That was something she’d yet to see in this battle.  Every attack from outside had been unable to penetrate the armor of the worm, but for the first time she saw the interior of the dragon’s throat splattered with blood from where the sharp wings had gouged it.

“All right,” she said, pleased.  “I’m in place . . . and I think I can hurt this thing from the inside!  I see blood!”

“Outstanding!” Gareth agreed.  “But we need to hurry.  A band of shamans is trying to wake the dragon up.  Lady Pentandra says to do as much damage as you can, for as long as you can.”

Dara nodded . . . and released all constraints on the Thoughtful Knife.  She let the rabid dog back off its leash.

Where she’d been forced to be cautious before, on the open battlefield where she was in danger of harming her friends, within the tortuous confines of the dragon’s throat there was no danger of that.  Dara sent as powerful a command as she could through her flagging connection, an order the Knife was eager to obey: Destroy!

Then she receded from active control, and let the Knife do what it was built to do.

Immediately, the weapon slammed itself into first one side of the dragon’s throat, and then the other.  Both sides of the elegant delta wing drew blood and turned the inside of the throat into a gory mess.  Yet even the powerful blows of the Knife were not decisive.  As deeply as it cut, the bands of muscle that supported the great head of the monster were thick and strong.  Dara set the Knife spinning, then, and instructed it to fly in continuous circles down the length of the strangled passage.

If it had no other effect, Dara’s insidious attack woke up the stunned beast.  The muscles slammed repeatedly down on the Knife, desperately trying to dislodge it.  It continued its relentless cutting.  Thankfully, the spells that Minalan cast were holding the head in place on the ground, but the long tunnel of gray flesh in front of the Knife was bending and shifting as the beast struggled to flee the pain in its throat.

While she was gratified that she was finally inflicting some damage on the dragon, she could tell that the painful attack was not doing what it was designed to do.  It might be in pain and wounded, but Dara knew that the thing was a long journey from being dead.

“It’s still not working!” she said in frustration.  “I’m hurting it, but not really injuring it!”

“Just keep doing it,” Gareth counseled.  “Master Minalan is working on a plan.”

“I thought this was the plan!” she snorted.

“He has another plan,” Gareth said, although Dara could detect his confidence was faltering.  “He’s a wizard!  We always have another plan!”

“It had better be a good one,” Dara advised, “because this one isn’t working.  And it had better be quick, because this thing is waking up, and I’m having trouble maintaining my connection!”

“Just hold on, Dara!” Gareth soothed.  “They’re working on it!”

Dara sighed.  It wasn’t like she could do anything else.  The dragon’s throat had the Knife effectively trapped.  She could rip the throat into sausage, but the Knife could not penetrate the hide from within.

Many anxious moments passed, as the Spellmonger and his Magical Corps conspired to finish the job she’d started.  While she waited, she tried every trick she could think of to damage the dragon and end its life.  But while she managed to fill the throat with a river of blood, she’d yet to hit any vital spot.

It was frustrating.  But she kept at it until she was beginning to grow bored.  It became less boring when the dragon well and truly woke up, and desperately tried to dislodge the offending pain in its throat.

“A few more minutes!” Gareth said, his voice sounding stressed.  “Can you tell if it’s awake from the . . . from the inside?”

“Oh, Flame yes!” Dara nodded.  “It’s good and awake.  And mad!  I’m surprised it hasn’t flown away, by now.”

“They got enough snowstone near it to bind its head to the ground,” Gareth informed her.  “They’re just waiting for something.”

“What?” demanded Dara.

“I don’t know yet!” Gareth snapped.  “I’m only getting a bit of information at a time.  Impatient, aren’t you?”

“Just bored,” she corrected.

“Would you like to review some basic thaumaturgy?” he proposed, teasing.  “A couple of staves of runes?  Now would be an excellent time to run over some of the Pereda . . .”

“No, thank you!” Dara snorted.  “How dare you wait until I’m in a vulnerable position and propose . . . homework!  What kind of man are you?” she teased in response, giggling.  It was a relief, a joke at a time like this.

“A dead one, if we can’t get this dragon to join his hallowed ancestors,” Gareth quipped back.  “Thank the gods the Spellmonger is here.  I can’t think of anyone else who might have a chance against that thing.  He’s the cleverest wizard I’ve ever met . . . and the most powerful.  You have no idea how lucky you are to be his apprentice!” the young wizard said, with envy.

“Yes, I’m the luckiest girl in the world . . . apprenticed but two weeks and already, learning how to read, cast spells, and die in battle,” she complained.  “Sorry, but I don’t really have the perspective to appreciate that sort of thing at the moment.”

“A fair point,” Gareth agreed, with a chuckle.  “I—all right, Pentandra says to start churning things up in there, again,” he said, suddenly.  “They’re going to attack the neck from the outside while you do it from the inside.  When I tell you to, push against the right side of that thing with everything you’ve got.”

“Really?” Dara said, taking a deep breath.  “I can do that!”  She re-asserted her will over the Thoughtful Knife, encouraging it to shift and vary its attack on the dragon.  The beast immediately began struggling to get away from the painful assault, giving the Knife a wild ride.

Still, she persisted.  Every bloody circuit she carved in it she added a little more force to the right side.  Over and over she spun the Knife, letting her anger and frustration fuel the connection.  The Knife seemed to welcome her rage, transforming it into a ferocious energy.  She realized that the more pure fury she fed it, the more viciously and effectively it attacked.

“Now!” Gareth nearly screamed in her ear.

Dara clenched her eyes tight and pushed every desperate ounce of will she had through the connection.  She felt the Knife slam hard into the selected spot on the right side, slam hard and burrow with all of its might.  The force was enough to move the entire neck.

Then something slammed into the neck from the other side, just inches away from where the point of the Knife struggled.  Dara could see, for the barest second, the moment where the tortured flesh of the beast parted in the midst of a thunderous explosion.  The feedback was so great she passed out for a moment.

She came to a few minutes later, Gareth and Pentandra standing anxiously over her.

Dara shook her head, and realized that her hair was caked to her face with sweat.  She heaved a deep breath, and everything came into focus.  The control stone lay limp in her sweaty fingers.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she assured them, as they shook her shoulders and petted her hair.  “Really, it just . . . I’m fine!  What happened?” she demanded.

“We did it!” Pentandra said, gleefully, as she sat back on her heels.  “We really did it!  We killed the thing!”

“What was that?” Dara asked in a daze, as Gareth gave her more water.  “That thing that hit the other side of the neck?”

“A knight,” Gareth said, simply.  “A knight mage.  One very brave knight mage.”

“A knight?  What knight could hit a dragon like that?” she asked, confused.  She’d expected to hear of some miraculous spell that Master Minalan had concocted for the occasion.  But a knight?

“One with arcane power in his arm and nobility in his heart,” Lady Pentandra said, gravely.  “It was Sire Cei of Sevendor who slew the dragon.  Though I fear he did not survive the feat.”

The next several hours passed in a haze for Dara.  She recalled the blood-stained Thoughtful Knife back to her, before she rested.  Gareth urged her to not to touch it, until it was magically cleaned – there was no telling what the ferocious creature’s odd blood could do.  And he wanted to study it.

The battle continued for hours, until well after sundown.  The rain finally settled back to a drizzle, creating a loud sizzle in the air as it settled over the still-flaming remains of Cambrian Castle.  The result of the battle was never in doubt – once the dragon collapsed on the goblin army’s center, and the cavalry had regrouped for one final devastating charge in the rain, the remnants of the gurvani were chased from the field.

Dara helped Gareth tend the wounded, as before, and was relieved as her friends and people she knew appeared back at the courtyard for some purpose or another.  Baron Arathanial, Tyndal, Rondal, Sir Festaran, Sir Taren, Sir Roncil, Sir Festaran . . . she was happy to see each and every one.

Save Sire Cei.  The brave Wilderlord who had tested his lance against the dragon had survived the attempt, but it was up to the power of the Flame whether he would survive the night.  Yet he was as well-tended as a man could hope to be, Gareth assured her.  Master Minalan himself was overseeing his care.  Should he still breathe when dawn came, the young wizard pronounced solemnly, he could yet recover.

Monks and nuns from the local monastery had arrived with gangs of peasants pressed into service to drag the dead and wounded from the field, frequently scattering the crows and carrion birds from both.  Her family and the other Westwoodmen were busy patrolling the perimeter of the encampment, wary for goblins or canines who might seek to feast on the dead.  A few tents and canopies were erected in front of the cottage to shield the most grievously wounded, until they could be transported by wagon to the field hospital for treatment, and thence to Barrowbell for recovery.

But all of it was a haze, to Dara.  Near midnight, as the last of the seriously wounded were trundled away, she collapsed back into the pile of supplies she’d sat on all day . . . and nearly fell over when she realized half of them were gone.

“That was graceful,” Tyndal snorted, from the doorway.

“Someone moved the pile,” she said, crossly, as she struggled achingly to her feet.  “Really!”

“Inanimate objects move all the time,” Rondal agreed, reasonably, joining his fellow.  “In my experience, at least.  You’d be amazed how quickly a sack of dirt can turn on you.  Good work, today,” he said, quickly, before Tyndal could say something stupid.  “Master Minalan is very, very pleased.  You killed a dragon.”

“You passed the test,” Tyndal said, with a smile.  “You kill a dragon, you get to stay.  The first one is always the hardest,” he added.

“Don’t listen to that idiot,” Rondal said, rolling his eyes.  “Master Min sent us to check on you.  The first reinforcements from Barrowbell just arrived, and are taking over our pickets and patrols.  We get to be off-duty for a few hours.”

“And it doesn’t have to be in this leaky dump,” Tyndal added.  “We kind of took over a prosperous peasant’s home, in the largely unspoiled section of scenic Cambrian Village.  The roof doesn’t leak as much, it isn’t burned to a crisp, and there might even be some decent food there,” he added, enticingly.  “The goblins took most of the bedding, damn them, but it’s safe and dry and warm.”

“And Master Min wants the Magical Corps to relocate there for the night, his orders,” added Rondal.  “We’re here to help you gather your things and move our supplies there.”

“We won’t be there long,” promised Tyndal, as he eyed Frightful thoughtfully.  “You leave for Barrowbell tomorrow or the next day with the wounded, I’m guessing.  They can rest and recover, there.  That’s where they’re taking Sire Cei,” he added, sorrowfully.

“Anywhere that isn’t here, is an improvement,” Rondal agreed.  “That dragon stinks even worse, now that it’s dead.”

“And while scenic Cambrian Castle is still quite scenic, the amenities have lapsed distressingly, in recent times,” Tyndal added, earning a disgusted look from Rondal.

“So grab your pack and come with us,” Rondal sighed.  “Bring your bird.  And your pony,” he added.  “She survived the battle?”

“As far as I know,” Dara said, suddenly feeling guilty that she hadn’t so much as checked on Doughty for hours, now.  She hoped someone had.  “It won’t take me long.  Gareth took the Thoughtful Knife, to clean it off.  I’ll grab Doughty if one of you two can take Frightful for me.”

“I’m not sure she likes me,” Tyndal said, as her bird stared at him protectively.

“Unless you’re a rabbit, you have nothing to fear,” chided Rondal, grabbing Frightful’s jesses and transferring her to his armored gauntlet.  “Then again . . . those ears . . .”

“But we should be doing more in Barrowbell than just resting,” Tyndal said, as he helped Dara sling her pack and quiver.  “We just saved an entire city from a dragon!”

“Well, she did,” Rondal said, sourly.  “You had very little to do with it.”

“I provided essential moral support at a critical time,” Tyndal said, with a snort.

“Which means you didn’t do anything to actually contribute,” Rondal sneered.

“Sort of like you did, to get your knighthood?” Tyndal shot back.

Dara shook her head and giggled to herself as she gathered her things.  Every muscle in her body ached with her long, busy day.  This morning she’d woken and broken her fast in Sevendor, a frightened girl facing an uncertain future.  At midnight, she was a seasoned veteran, retiring after battle.

“She’s the important one, here,” Rondal insisted.  “It was Dara and Cei who did the deed.  They’re the ones who deserve the glory!”

“Oh, I know!” Tyndal said, exasperated.  “Sire Cei the Dragonslayer, and the Hawkmaiden!  Barrowbell will go crazy, when they see the two of you!”

“What?” Dara asked, in disbelief.  “Why?”

“Because you’re heroes, that’s why,” Rondal answered, simply.  “Real heroes.  You did something no one else has ever done.  You killed a dragon in battle.  Not even Master Min has done that.”

“Well, sure,” Dara shrugged.  “But it’s not like . . . I mean, we . . . I . . .”  The room started to spin.

“Relax!” Tyndal insisted.  “Ron, you’re scaring the girl!  Ishi’s—look, let’s just get her back to the cottage and let her sleep.  She’s exhausted, and you’re badgering her!”

“I am not badgering her!” Rondal complained, loudly.  Loudly enough to make Frightful complain.

“See?  Even the bird thinks you’re badgering her.  Come on, Dara,” he said, with slightly too much sympathy, “let’s get you someplace dry.  Someplace befitting a Dragonslayer.”

Her head settled down a bit, but didn’t stop spinning entirely, as the boys escorted her and Doughty the mile and a half through the dark to the cottage they’d claimed.  Along the way they continued to bicker loudly enough to alert any goblin in the area.

But Dara wasn’t really listening to their banter.  She was still absorbing what they’d told her – she and Sire Cei were heroes.  They’d slain a dragon.

She’d slain a dragon!  Or at least helped slay a dragon.

Either way, it was a strange experience.  One that she didn’t really understand, not after midnight, slogging her way through the mud and drizzle across a dark and treacherous battlefield.  Even with magesight – which her fellow apprentices insisted she use, instead of casting a magelight that could attract snipers – she could see piles of goblin corpses as they walked down the road, carrion birds braving the dark and drizzle for the opportunity of a grisly feast, the flies already beginning to swarm.

The human dead were laid out in neat rows, covered by their own mantles or by tarpaulins, and guarded from such ignominy by somber knights who volunteered for the sacred battlefield vigil.  Eventually they would be collected by priestesses, the Silent Sisters of various sects, identified, embalmed, and carted back to their home villages for proper burial.

There were an awful lot of them, she realized, as she passed the long, orderly row.  She wondered how many she knew. The boys were reverent enough to keep silent, as they passed the dead soldiers, gathered in one last formation.  The all saluted the guardians of the dead, who returned the salute with grim expressions.

“Not great duty to draw,” Rondal said, shaking his head.

“For once, I agree,” Tyndal nodded, in a low voice.  “Hard to see that and not think . . .”

“Yeah,” Rondal said, quickly, before he could finish the thought.

Dara said nothing.  She didn’t know what to say.  Had the battle gone even slightly differently, she realized, she and her family could be stretched out under those tarps.

Two days later she departed ruined Cambrian as part of the first wave of wounded to be evacuated to Barrowbell.  Thankfully the weather had broken, and the rain had departed before they did.

They set out south along the ruined road, passing more troops arriving to secure the battlefield.  A small contingent of warmagi were staying behind to examine the giant corpse of the dragon, but most were accompanying the main force from the Riverlands in clean-up detail.  The goblins who’d survived the battle were fleeing northward, whence they came, or had taken off across country to hide.  Lady Ithalia and Sarakeem, some zealous warmagi and a host of eager Riverlord knights were chasing them across the desolate cotton fields of Gilmora.

The rest of the Magical Corps were headed to Barrowbell.  Though the roads were good, the rain that had soaked the flat ground on either side began to dry up.  Master Minalan and Lady Pentandra rode knee-to-knee, conspiring for a little while along the first part of the journey, while a few Riverlords of the Bontal Vales escorted the long line of wagons and carts that bore the most grievously-wounded.

Dara stuck with her kinfolk, who were also being used as escorts, until she’d heard every story her brothers had about the battle, twice.

“Good thing you were safe behind the wall, Little Bird,” Kobb smirked.  “And a better thing you had that handsome knight rescue you in your moment of need!”

“I did not require his help,” Dara scoffed.  “And he’s not that handsome!”

“He’s in the train, you know,” Kobb teased.  “I saw him riding in the rearguard.  I know you didn’t do much in the battle, but I’m sure you impressed him by stabbing that goblin.  Most ladylike,” he mocked, solemnly.

“I didn’t do—?” Dara began, sputtering at her obnoxious older brother.

“Did you not see her tending the wounded, with that clever young wizard?” her uncle Keram scolded Kobb.  “She did her share, and then some!”

“Yes, she is adept at bandages.  And water,” he added.  “She was wicked quick with a water bottle.  But nothing a nun couldn’t do,” he dismissed, rudely.

“Little Bird shot as much as you did, and better!” Kyre reproved.  “And she assisted with magic,” he reminded them all.  “She used Frightful to spy from above and give us intelligence.  It was worth bringing her!” he insisted.

Dara snorted angrily – both at the defensive tone her oldest brother took for her, and for the ignorance from her kin that inspired it.  After all she’d been through in the battle and after, they still had little idea what she’d done, or why she’d been brought.  Though she knew they might benefit from a lengthy lecture on both, she suddenly didn’t feel in the mood to convince her kin she was worth the pony who carried her.  She rode further up in the column until she was back with her fellows among the Magical Corps.

That was where she felt most comfortable, she realized.  She’d barely spoken of her role in the battle to her father, uncle, and kin – as far as they were concerned, she’d spent the worst of it safe and tidy in the ruined cottage, and was uninvolved in the greater battle.

Here, among the magi, she felt more at ease.  They were more aware of what she’d done, though Sire Cei seemed to get the bulk of the credit for the dragon’s demise, thanks to his personal sacrifice and bravery in doing so.

Dara could not argue against that.  Sire Cei had known, it was said, that he would likely not survive the attack . . . yet he had couched his lance and driven his destrier at the outstretched neck anyway.  She had been safe from the result of the attack.

If it had been anyone but Sire Cei, she might not have felt so stricken about his fall.  But Dara was growing fond of the dour Wilderlord, she realized, and would mourn if he was taken from Sevendor.  She sent a silent prayer to the Flame to watch over him and speed his healing.  She knew that the knight mage was a devotee of Duin the Destroyer, as most chivalry were, and that the war god was reputed to protect the most valiant of his sons, should he not take them on the battlefield.  Dara figured the Flame was a better divinity to invoke – the peace and warmth of the hearth was associated with healing and recuperation.  Even the Narasi anthropomorphized version, the fire goddess Briga, was seen as a healer.

It was fascinating, listening to her colleagues speak of the battle in ways her brothers’ stories of heroics did not.  Her arrival did not deter the discussion, which had been on the lightning strike the Magical Corps had constructed; in fact, it changed it.  Once Sire Cei the Dragonslayer’s part in the elaborate battle was acknowledged, the assembled wizards were happy to laud the other Dragonslayer, the one in their midst.  Dara was, she learned, a real celebrity among the wizards for what she’d done.  No one could imagine even flying the Thoughtful Knife, much less doing it with such adeptness.

They demanded that she tell her story, and she found herself struggling to put the experience into words.  Indeed, after the first telling they demanded that she tell it again, asking for more detail and embellishment.  Dara managed to improve the telling, she felt, until they were satisfied that she was as brave and heroic and clever as they all insisted she was.

But it was a good thing she did.  Over the next few days, she would re-tell the story so many times that it came naturally to her lips.

In the column marching the ten miles to Barrowbell, though, it was still fresh in her mouth.  After the second telling, she relaxed into answering a few more questions about the feat.  Gareth, in particular, wanted to know the details.  He’d been at her side, relaying instructions from Pentandra, and hadn’t even seen the battle.  She entertained the wizard with as much as she could remember, until she realized that he was extending the conversation just to speak with her, not out of a real interest.

She wasn’t certain what to feel about that, but she knew it made her uncomfortable.  Making the excuse that she wanted to let Frightful fly a bit, she excused herself and slipped back toward the rear of the long train of wagons.  Doughty was a surprisingly well-mannered mount, for a former pack animal, and she didn’t seem to mind Dara’s gentle intrusion into her mind, as long as she got the carrots she was promised.

Eventually, she found herself riding knee-to-knee with Sir Festaran, as the column reached the crest of a slight hill.  Everything was so burning flat in Gilmora, she reflected, when the handsome young knight appeared.

“Good morning, Maid Dara,” he said, politely.  “I believe I have you to thank for that sudden rescue, on the battlefield.”

“That was you?” Dara asked, absently.  She didn’t know why she didn’t want to admit she’d known Festaran was there, but she did it.  “I hadn’t noticed.  Consider my debt to you repaid, then,” she said.

“Debt?  What debt?” Festaran asked, confused.

“Saving my life in the cotyard?” she reminded him.  The incident felt as if it had happened a year ago.  “Now we are even.”

“So we are, then,” the young knight chuckled.  “And lucky for all of us that I did.  I hear our victory was due in large part to your efforts.  Yours and Sire Cei’s.”

“We all helped where we could,” she dismissed.  “I witnessed the occasional glimpse of your own efforts, from the clouds.  At least,” she said, considering, “I think it was you,” she teased.

“Oh, if the knight was knee-deep in mud and tripping over his mantle every third step, then yes, it was I,” Sir Festaran said, airily.  “Most of my efforts can be attributed to a combination of luck and desperation.  And I took no serious wound, for it, thank Duin,” he added.  “All in all, I would say the scions of Sevendor acquitted themselves admirably on the field . . . and so soon after being forced to defend their lands.  It speaks highly of your folk.”

“Our folk, now,” she reminded him.  Minalan had taken possession of Sir Festaran’s domain as liege after the short war with the Warbird of West Fleria.  As fellow vassals under the same lord, that made them both countrymen, now.  “And don’t forget our Magelord,” she reminded.  “Master Minalan orchestrated the entire battle, with Pentandra’s help.”

“It is a privilege to be a vassal of such a nobleman,” Festaran agreed.  “Especially in such vital service.  Fair Gilmora is wounded,” he said, grimly, his manner changing as he looked around at the countryside.  “Every third cot is burned, every hamlet deserted, every field barren.  Beyond the road small squadrons lurk behind every hedge, inside every barn.  It could be years before they will be rooted out of the countryside,” he said, sourly.  “And had they reached Barrowbell in force, I shy from imagining such a thing.  It was a mercy of us to intervene.”

“Perhaps,” Dara sighed.  “But I wish it wasn’t necessary.  It was frightening.”

“And yet you rose to the challenge with uncommon bravery, Maid Dara,” Sir Festaran said, kindly and with genuine respect.  “Young as you are, you fought as boldly and fearlessly as any knight.”

“You are . . . you are kind to say so, Sir Festaran,” she said, blushing under her helmet.  She was unused to such admiration – to such attention.  Despite becoming renown in Sevendor after the Spellmonger’s Trial, she still felt self-conscious every time someone did.

“It’s not kindness to observe a plain truth,” the knight continued, looking in the distance.  ‘Ah, that is the gate of Barrowbell, ahead,” he said, as they rounded a sweeping curve that continued due south.

Dara caught her breath.  She had never seen anything so . . . massive.

The great city of Barrowbell was emerging before them, getting larger with every step.  Dara thought it was a mountain, at first – until she realized there were no other mountains around.  The great wall stretched across the horizon as they rounded the bend, sprawling from one end of the horizon to the other.  Spires and rooftops rose overhead, and the dark hulk of a castle loomed on one side of the city.

There was plenty of activity around it, too, she noted.  Thousands of troops were encamped outside of the walls, and redoubts were being built just inside of bowshot from the wall.  The walls themselves seemed packed with moving figures, running along their tops like ants up a table leg.

And there was a noise.  She couldn’t place what it was, in the distance – it sounded almost like a river.  As the column rode closer she could start to pick out the sound of bells ringing higher, over the roar.

“What is that sound?” she asked, shaking her head in confusion.

“That?” Sir Festaran asked, with a chuckle.  “That, Maid Dara, is people cheering.  For us.  For you,” he said.

She realized, to her horror, that he was correct.  Thousands had gathered to the walls of Barrowbell, and were cheering so loudly that, together, their voices created a roar that could be heard more than a mile away.

“There must be thousands of them,” she said, in a daze.

“At least six thousand, four hundred and twenty-one,” Festaran agreed.  “Unless you count the soldiers cheering, too.  Then it’s about nine thousand, seven hundred and ninety-six.  All the people we saved,” he said, with a note of satisfaction.  “And they’re all cheering for us!”

Chapter Eleven

The City of Barrowbell

By the next morning, Dara was starting to wish she was still in a leaky, burned-out cottage on a battlefield, instead of a beautifully-appointed chamber in one of the finer homes of the city.

It wasn’t the accommodations that were the problem, though Dara had never enjoyed the luxury of a bed that soft before.  Nor was it really the awkward fact that here, in Barrowbell, she now had servants to wait upon her.  Even when she took a bath.  Both of those had been difficult adjustments for her to make, but she’d grown used to that kind of thing in the Spellmonger’s service.

No, the real trouble with Barrowbell was how everyone treated her.

When they’d first entered the gates, festooned with the cotton boll banners of the city, the people of Barrowbell lined the streets and threw spring flowers down from the balconies.  Minstrels and musicians played triumphant tunes as the entire town seemed to yell themselves hoarse.  Women came out of the crowd and presented everyone with bouquets of flowers or little sweet biscuits.

The wains bearing the wounded were directed down a different street, to a large abbey that had been staged as a hospital to care for them, while the rest of the vanguard continued on.  Once the column made its way to the city’s central square, where the burghers were assembled to receive them, there was a brief ceremony that Dara couldn’t even hear before the company was bid to dismount.

“Everything has been arranged,” Pentandra assured the Magical Corps, as they gathered on the massive flagstoned market square of the great city, surrounded by crowds of well-wishers.  “We have accommodations for all, and provisions have been pledged.  The common men and the recuperating wounded will be billeted in an empty warehouse.

“The rest of us, and the officers, will be housed as guests of the city,” she said, pleased.  “For the next few days you are at liberty to rest and recover from your labors.  Please remember that all of this is in preparation for the Spellmonger to arrive here, and we want to ensure that goes as well as possible.  This is a great victory for him and all the Arcane Orders.

“To that end, I want all of you to understand that you are ambassadors of your craft – our craft – here, and I expect your best behavior.  And your discretion and cooperation.  There will be celebrations and banquets, parties and fetes.  Hundreds of burgher families have offered their homes for our stay.  Be ideal guests, keep your ears open, and be prepared to work on behalf of the Orders, if charged,” she ordered.

Pentandra introduced them all to an assistant reeve from the town who would billet the bulk of the Magical Corps.  But when Dara approached her to see if she would be staying with her kin, Pentandra laughed.

“Oh, no, my dear Maid Dara!  You are a much sought-after prize.  Every noble house and merchant prince in Barrowbell wants the honor of hosting the Hawkmaiden,” the wizard informed her.

“They . . . do?” Dara asked, confused.  “Why?  I mean, I don’t eat much, but—”

“You may eat as much as a dragon, and none will complain,” Pentandra assured.  “No, apart from Sire Cei and the Spellmonger, himself, you, Maid Dara, have captured the imagination of the folk of Barrowbell.  They are not a warlike people – their strength is in commerce.  Even the city’s garrison are largely hired mercenaries.  It has been an age since Barrowbell faced any serious danger, not since Gilmora came under Castali control.  Since then they have grown prosperous, wealthy, and untroubled by war.

“So when war was brought to their doorstep so unexpectedly and so brutally, they had little with which to defend themselves.  The countryside was ravaged.  The gentlemen knights who rule the wealthy cottonlands are adept at warring with each other, but little else – and their castles are hardly more than fortified manors.  When the Gilmoran chivalry failed, and the Day of the Dragons decimated the armies defending it, Barrowbell looked all but lost.

“But then,” she said, dramatically, her eyes opening wider, “the Spellmonger and his magical army magically appear out of thin air, just in the nick of time,” she said, excitedly.  “And he brought with him mighty powers, the cream of the Riverlands chivalry, and the uncanny skill of great heroes.  Sarakeem the Archer.  Ithalia the Alkan Maid.  Sir Taren the Sage, brave and clever.  Sir Terleman, Lord Commander who led the great charge.  Myself,” she admitted, “the wiley and exotically beautiful Remeran witch, mysterious mage from the east.  Tyndal and Rondal, the brash and brave knights magi who fought so valiantly at the Spellmonger’s side.  Jendaran the Trusty, newly-made high mage, engaged in his first battle of power.  Sire Cei, the Dragonslayer, the knight mage whose bravery, power, and skill with a lance was vital to the task.

“And then there is Dara of Westwood, the Hawkmaiden, herself a newly-made High Mage by her own skill and cleverness, now the Spellmonger’s pretty new apprentice, who not only braved her hawk in the danger of battle . . . but whose skill with the Thoughtful Knife was legendary.  You slew hundreds of goblins, Dara,” Pentandra pointed out.  “You saved your comrades, and turned the battle.  And that’s before you took the Knife down the dragon’s throat and provided essential assistance to Sire Cei in killing it.”

“I . . .”

“You are famous,” Pentandra continued, flatly.  “And there’s no escaping that.  So we shall use it to our best advantage.  The people of Barrowbell desperately want heroes to thank, and you have been selected.”

“But there were so many others—”

“Of course there were!” Pentandra said, nodding.  “And some gave everything in the effort.  They, not we, should be the true honorees in Barrowbell.  But part of the burden of the living is to accept honors on behalf of the dead.  And to give the people of Barrowbell an object for their gratitude.”

“Is all this really . . . necessary?” Dara asked, doubtfully, as she watched delegations of burgher families and noble houses descend into the ornate square to greet their saviors.  Each one wore bright colors, presumably representing their houses, and more golden jewelry than Dara suspected existed in all the world.

Every woman seemed to have three or four ornate necklaces, earrings, headpieces, rings, bracelets, and anklets, making them shimmer and ring as they walked.  They also wore brightly-colored wimples that hung loose, allowing their hair to cascade across their shoulders in a way that would have made her Aunt Anira scowl.

The men were nearly as gaudy, Dara decided, as they escorted the ladies.  They wore tight-fitting doublets over short trousers, their stockings barely rising to the knee, and colorful cotton mantles.  Their shoes were long and pointed beyond all reason, and in some cases were indecently curled.  They wore almost as many necklaces and rings as the ladies, but more than made up for it with bejeweled belts of gilt and silver, carrying undersized swords with so many stylish ornaments on their hilts that Dara could not imagine how they’d be useful in a fight.

“Yes, Dara,” Pentandra said, in a low and serious voice.  “Absolutely necessary.  Your master may call upon you to do many hard and dangerous things over the course of your apprenticeship.  But this may be among the most important tasks of all: allowing yourself to be adored by these people.”

“But why?” Dara felt compelled to ask.  She knew a good apprentice shouldn’t question an order like that, but she was confused.  Luckily, Pentandra did not take the question amiss.

“Politics,” Pentandra pronounced, pursing her lips.  “Don’t forget, until a year ago the magi were controlled by the Censorate of Magic, unable to use our fullest powers.  After four centuries of such barbaric restrictions, they need us.  And we need to remind them why they need us.  That means that some of us,” she said, placing her finger solemnly on Dara’s nose, “will have to become heroes.  Among other things.:

“But . . . I don’t want to be a hero!” Dara whispered.

“Minalan and I have taken great care to construct the new politics of magic, Dara,” she explained, patiently.  “One which favors and protects magi instead of punishing and restricting us.  Some of that work means whispering in the ears of the high nobility, scheming with the clergy, and making deals with commercial interests, like my cousin Planus,” she said, nodding toward the tall Remeran whom many of the ladies of Barrowbell seemed quite taken.  “And some of what we’re doing means dangerous battles, secret quests, and . . . well, best you not know some of those details,” she decided, taking a breath.

“But what the needs of the moment require are a few heroic warmagi who can capture the imaginations of the common folk.  By becoming the object of the gratitude of Barrowbell, you aid our political motives.  In truth, I expected the excitement over Terleman and Cei, and the warmagi.

“What I didn’t expect was how many of the folk of Barrowbell have seized the tale of the thirteen-year-old Hawkmaid who battled a dragon . . . from the inside!  So, we’re going to capitalize on that,” she decided.  “Which means you need to stand around and look brave and resolute, and let people shower you with gifts and praise, story and song, for a few days.”  Pentandra blinked.  “Are you up to that, Dara?”

Dara swallowed.  This was not how she expected her first battle to end.  But she had a . . . duty, she knew.  “I’ll do it.  I’ll do my best,” she amended.

“Good girl!” Pentandra praised.  “Now, I’ve taken great care in the selection of your hosts.  I’ve arranged for you to stay with one of the noble families in town, House Siviline.  They are a distinguished line of Cotton Lords who not only have a lot of political power in this region, they have a daughter near your age who is adamant about hosting the legendary Hawkmaiden, Maid Dara of Westwood, in their stately home.

“Your first mission, Dara, is to make friends with her and her family, and be a positive representation of wizards to the nobility.  Their daughter has been instructed to help you . . . adapt to Barrowbell society,” she said, choosing her words carefully.  “I would prefer to be subtle about it, but the fact is, my girl, as famous as you are at the moment, you need to learn the protocols of Barrowbell society and customs, lest you become famous for some embarrassing other reasons.”

Dara looked at her, confused.

“No one recovers from farting in front of the Baron,” she said, frankly.  “That’s an old Remeran saying, something my mother made sure I understood from girlhood.  That’s a crude way to put it, but it, like magic, is a metaphor.  And like magic, learning the meaning of the symbols is key.”

“So . . . you want me to learn the . . . symbols of Barrowbell’s society . . . like runes or letters?”

“Exactly so,” Pentandra nodded, pleased.  “Not just to keep from embarrassing yourself I trust you not to actually fart in front of a baron – but I want you to be able to be useful to the Order here, and you will be more useful if you understand the symbols and know the proper behavior and protocols.  Useful beyond being a mere object of adoration.”

“Why me?”

“Your fame will give you access to people, important people, that we want to influence and communicate with.  Discretely,” she added, with emphasis.   “The nobles I’ve chosen to host you are going to help with that.  They’re old family friends of Magelord Mavone, who grew up in Gilmora.  He vouches for their trustworthiness and honor, as well as their sympathy to our cause.

“I will send my maid over this evening, after you’ve had a chance to settle in, and she’ll begin teaching you the basic manners, customs, and forms of address you will need to know.  She will also pass along any additional information to you from me, particularly about the people involved in your missions.”  Pentandra looked at her, searchingly.  “Are you up for this, Dara?”

“Which one is House Siviline?” she asked, as she looked nervously around at the riot of color and jewelry infesting the square.

“The yellow and purple,” Pentandra said, indicating a delegation of six – mostly liveried footmen – with a young girl her own age in their midst.  “Their device is the sign of the wren.  That’s young Lady Amara, only daughter of Lord Beldrine of Siviline.”

Lady Amara was a beautiful, slender girl, with long light-blonde hair under her wimple and bright green eyes.   She wore a pretty, elaborate gown of violet with golden trim.  There was more jewelry around her neck than existed in all the Westwood, Dara noted.  She felt Pentandra’s hand between her shoulder blades, pushing her gently toward the girl.

Dara’s feet stumbled a bit, but she tried her best to smile as she approached.  She wasn’t sure what else to do, so she bowed.

“Lady Amara?” she asked, hesitantly.  Before she had completed her bow, the girl embraced her forcefully.

“You must be Lenodara, the Hawkmaiden!” the girl said in a friendly, excited voice.  “On behalf of House Siviline and all of Barrowbell, allow me to offer you our thanks and gratitude for your bravery!”

“I was . . . we were . . .”

“Here,” the pretty girl said, removing one of her many necklaces and placing it over Dara’s head.  “In Barrowbell, we use these necklaces to indicate favor and position,” she explained, quietly.  “We give them to our knights when they joust in tournaments, or to favored friends and vassals as a token of our support.  It would be an honor if the first you received was from House Siviline.”

“I . . . thank you, that’s very gracious of you, Lady Amara,” Dara said.

“You will stay with us, of course,” Amara said, taking Dara’s rough, calloused hand in her own dainty one and leading her.  “There you can rest and recover from your trials, before the banquets truly begin.”

“Banquets?”

“Oh, the entire city has declared a three-day holiday to celebrate the victory, once the Spellmonger arrives,” Amara assured her.  “It’s not every day that a dragon is slain.  Especially not after the Day of the Dragons,” she said with a shudder.  “We were sure Barrowbell was next.  Father wanted to send us all to the countryside, but with all those goblins skulking around . . .”

“They’re doing more than skulking,” Dara said, earnestly.  “There are great armies of them, out there.”

“One less, now,” Amara dismissed, patting her hand.  “And one less dragon.  That, at least, is worth celebrating!  Let’s get you back to the house where you can get a bath and get away from all of . . . this,” she said, waving around at the chaos in the square distastefully.

Dara could not argue with that.  The chaos of the square was giving her a headache.  She allowed herself to be pulled to the edge of the great square, away from the rest of the Sevendori, but was surprised when they were stopped.

“Amara of Siviline!” came a loud call across the noisy square.  “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

Amara stopped short, and her eyes narrowed.  The pretty blonde girl whirled around and faced the voice who’d halted her.

“I am escorting Lenodara the Hawkmaiden back to Siviline House,” she replied in a casual drawl that was laden with unspoken meaning.  “Why would that concern you, Maid Ninda?”

“Why would she want to stay in the house of a second-rate country knight when she could enjoy the palace of a merchant prince?” the other girl said, haughtily.

Dara studied her carefully.  She was taller, with dark hair, and perhaps a year older than Amara.  She wore a long plum-colored gown with the sign of two ravens embroidered on it in black, and at least twenty golden necklaces around her neck.  Her wimple was tossed back, letting her thick dark hair spill over her shoulders.  But it was her eyes, dark and challenging, that made the girl imposing.

“Because she has class,” Lady Amara snapped.  “And taste.  My father arranged these accommodations yesterday, Ninda.  House Siviline will host the Hawkmaiden.  House Astinbel, I’m certain, can find some other way to support our rescuers.”  Amara was being purposefully patient with the girl, but Dara was certain that their civil words concealed a history of conflict.  She’d seen how her sister reacted to rivals, real or perceived, and this was similar.

“Dear Trygg, protect us, if House Siviline is what is mistaken for class, in Barrowbell,” the other girl snorted.  “But if that is her desire, the Hawkmaiden can stay where she will.  You have the gratitude of Barrowbell, Maid Lenodara,” the brunette assured her.  “All of Barrowbell, not just the . . . old and dusty parts,” she said, with a bow.

“It was my duty to serve,” Dara said, simply, not knowing what else to say.  “I was just flying – hey!  Frightful!” she said, realizing with alarm that her falcon was still sitting on the perch of her saddle, which one of the grooms from House Siviline was cautiously leading through the crowd.  She was hooded, to keep her from panicking at the noise and chaos, and her jesses were secured to the saddle.  Dara quickly unfastened them and placed Frightful on her shoulder, where she settled uneasily.

“Oh, dear goddess!” Ninda said, horrified.  “That’s a beast of a bird!”

“She’s a Silver Hooded Raptor,” Dara said, proudly, as she secured the jesses to her armor.  “Her name is Frightful.”

“She certainly is!” Lady Amara said, admiringly.  “Father won’t let me fly anything larger than a red-tail.  He says it’s not ladylike.  But that bird is fit for a baron!”

“She’s a keen hunter,” Dara agreed.  “She can take a rabbit like it’s a vole.  Especially if I’m riding behind her eyes, too.  That’s far more fun,” she assured.

“You . . . ride your hawk?” Ninda asked, skeptically.

“I am a beastmaster,” Dara explained, uncomfortably.  “As a mage, one of my talents is being able to link my mind with animals.  Particularly this one,” she said, affectionately.

“She really is a beast,” Maid Ninda said, skeptically.  “Wouldn’t a prettier bird be better?  Like a red tail or a whitewing?”

Dara looked at the girl, her opinion of her declining even further.  “I took Frightful from her nest, a mountain nest over eight hundred feet above the ground, and raised her and trained her myself.  I didn’t do that because she’s ‘pretty’, I did it because her kind are one of the deadliest hunters in the Uwarris.  She is the perfect bird for me!” she said, defiantly.

“Pay her no mind, Hawkmaid,” Lady Amara said, coolly.  “Falconry is the sport of the nobility, after all.  Not every merchant with a fat purse can appreciate its finer points.  Come,” she said, putting her arm over Dara’s shoulders protectively, being careful of the falcon perched there.  “Let’s get you to Siviline House.  Away from this . . . annoying clatter,” she said, with a glance over her shoulder at Maid Ninda.  “I expect I shall see you at the banquet, Maid Ninda?”

“I’ll be the one surrounded by adoring admirers,” the brunette snapped.  “And not covered in bird poop.”

“Ignore her,” Lady Amara said, kindly, when they’d strode out of earshot.  “She and her family are aggressively ambitious.  They have been for generations.  They sit on the Burghers Council, and do everything they can to snipe at the nobility.  She was hoping to swoop in and snatch you up for her own aggrandizement,” Amara explained.  “Showing you off to prove how important her family is.  Idiot!”

“She did seem pretty . . . caustic,” Dara said, choosing her words carefully.

“She is,” assured Amara.  “One of many.  Her father is trying to arrange her marriage to one of the old noble houses, so she’ll have a title, too, eventually.  And I will have to call her Lady Ninda.  Of course, the noble girls are just as bad,” she admitted.  She turned and looked admiringly at Frightful.  “Did you really take her from her nest?”

“Yes, by the Flame,” she assured.  “It was the stupidest, most dangerous thing I ever did in my life.  I almost died.  But I didn’t, and now I have her.”

“She’s magnificent!” Lady Amara said, with genuine admiration.  “I’m mad for falcons – one of the reasons that I imposed on Father to get you to stay with us.  Thankfully he felt it would be a good thing for the House.  Sometimes he’s depressingly practical about such things.”

“Thank you,” Dara said.  “Perhaps we’ll have a chance to hunt her, before I return to Sevendor.”

“Oh, that would be grand!” Lady Amara said, beaming.  “I’d love to see her in flight!”

As they walked through the sunny streets, Dara warmed to her hostess.  Once you got passed the cosmetics, gown, and jewelry, she found the young noblewoman to be quite friendly and genuinely interested in who she was and where she was from.

Nor was there the usual suspicion of a girl from the Westwood – here, in Barrowbell, Dara wasn’t really from the Westwood.  She was from Sevendor, far to the east, and the apprentice of the famous Spellmonger of Sevendor.

House Siviline was, thankfully, only a mile and a half away through the twisted and confusing streets of Barrowbell.  Lady Amara led the way, with her attendants and servants following, leading Doughty.  She continued telling Dara about the city, the politics, and the names of houses that Dara had never heard of, but she only half-listened.  She was too busy trying to see everything.

Dara was in awe of how crowded the place was: every house was attached to the others around it, the streets were paved with well-worn cobbles, from one side to the other, and every shop on the street seemed to compete for attention with flowers, banners, signs and displays of wares.  It was as if the entire gigantic city was one big marketplace.  Her head spun as she realized that some of the homes they passed were four or even five stories tall – common homes, not noble’s residences.

Indeed, as the party turned a corner, the homes became even grander: wider, taller, and with impressive little gardens in the front.

“Welcome to the Noble Quarter,” Amara announced, as they passed under a decorative arch that spanned the entire street.  “This is where the old nobility keep their homes, when they visit Barrowbell on business.  Since the invasion this is where most of us have been living.  Not nearly as nice as our estate in Siviline, but it’s cozy,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Cozy” wasn’t the word Dara would have chosen to describe the stately brick house Amara led them to.  Siviline House was five stories tall, and as broad across the face of the street as the entirety of Westwood Hall, back home.  The gate and entryway was a grand display ornamented by countless wrens, in marble and gilded wood.  Amara led her casually past the grim-looking guardsman who presided over the gate, and into the hall inside.

It was magnificent – far more elegant than anything in Sevendor.  Wooden paneling and intricately-painted scenes decorated the walls, instead of tapestries, and the wooden floors were highly polished and laid with thick and cunningly-woven rugs.  Chandeliers thick with colored glass hung from the high ceilings, and the rafters were crowded with trophies and heirlooms.  The fireplace was as wide as the one in the Great Hall of Sevendor Castle, and served as the central altar for the house.  A dozen gods peered at her from over the quietly burning flame.  Everywhere, from the mantle to the paintings to the chandeliers, the sign of the wren was used.

“Gaudy, isn’t it?” Amara snickered, as she drank in the room.  “Our country estate is a lot more subtle, but when we’re in Barrowbell Father likes to impress his vassals and business associates.”

“It’s . . . it’s beautiful,” Dara confessed.  Then she giggled.  “Although if I unhood Frightful, she’s likely to get hungry, with all of these wrens around.”

“The symbol of our house since we came up from Alshar,” Amara nodded.  “Our family has ruled lands since Alshar ruled Gilmora.  Most of the old nobility shares that.  Upstart houses, like Ninda’s, tend to be Castali . . . and common,” she said, a sneer in her voice.

That troubled Dara.  She was a commoner, herself.  “Not that it matters much, anymore.  Most of the noble and commercial houses have intermarried so frequently in the last fifty years, there aren’t many differences left.  Father refuses to marry me to a merchant family, however,” she said, resolutely.  “We are scions of Alshar.  We have our line to consider.”

Not much of that made sense to Dara, and for a moment she was grateful she wasn’t a noble.  But she could respect the position; there were many within the Westwood who were wary of marrying outside, and bringing in the Vale folk to spoil it.  Dara felt such things were usually pretty silly . . . but then she was starting to appreciate just how complicated things could be.

Amara’s next question startled her.  “Has your father sought you a husband, yet?” she asked, curiously.

“N-no,” Dara stuttered.  “I’m . . . I’m apprenticed to the Magelord, now.  I’m a . . . a professional woman, since my Talent emerged.”

“Oh,” Amara said, sounding a little disappointed.  Then she brightened.  “Well, isn’t that different?  That happened to a cousin of mine.  She’s at Alar Academy, in Wenshar.  She was going to lose her title, but now . . . I guess things are different for magi, now.”

“I’m still pretty new,” Dara said, apologetically.  Then she remembered her mission: to represent wizards in a positive light.  “But yes,” she said, more confidently.  “There are a lot of changes happening.  My master is working hard to ensure that the new order is fair and just for all.”  The words tumbled out of her mouth as if she’d practiced them.  In truth, she merely repeated the sorts of things she’d heard repeated around Sevendor Castle.

“We in Barrowbell welcome the change,” Lady Amara said, somewhat formally.  “Especially if it saves us from peril.  Come,” she said, tugging her hard enough to make Frightful lurch on her shoulder, “let’s go to my chambers.  I’ve had my maids prepare a bath for you.  Once we get you out of your . . .”

“Armor?” Dara finished.  “Uh, I don’t know where my clothes are.  My regular clothes.  I don’t usually go around wearing armor.”

“Don’t worry about clothes,” Lady Amara assured, pulling her up a staircase.  “The one good thing about being stuck in Barrowbell is the clothes.  I have chests full, and I’m sure I can find something to fit you, and look splendid.  If not,” she shrugged, “I can always have something made up special.”

“Uh . . . thank you,” Dara managed.  “I didn’t bring much from Sevendor.  We were instructed to take as little as possible through the magical portal.”

That stopped Lady Amara in her tracks on the landing.  “You?  You went through a magical portal?”

“Well, we all did,” Dara shrugged.  “That’s how we were able to surprise the goblin army.”

Lady Amara looked positively enchanted.  “I want to hear all about it, every last detail!” she insisted.  “Things are so boring here, and then you arrive, and . . . and . . .” the girl stopped speaking and gave Dara another unexpected embrace.  “Oh, thank you for staying with us!  I know things are confusing right now, but I can’t wait to hear about everything you’ve done!”

If Dara was surprised at the hug, she was even more surprised at the bath that awaited her in Lady Amara’s private chamber – a room as big as the hall at Westwood Hall.  Three servant girls near their age were gathered around a large copper tub, brimming with water and soapy foam, scattered with dried and fresh flower petals.  When Lady Amara suggested she get a bath, she’d figured it would be the usual wooden tub and tepid water.

This, however, was different.  Not only was the experience of steaming hot water luxurious and novel, so was the awkward experience of instructing three ladies’ maids in how to unfasten her armor before she slid into the tub.  They squealed with horror when they discovered that, among the splattered mud and battlefield filth there was blood – goblin blood – from a goblin she’d stabbed with her very own hand.  That set all the girls abuzz, and she had to tell the story about the only time she’d actually had to fight for her life.

They were particularly excited to hear the role Sir Festaran played in that, which annoyed Dara.  She felt she could have killed the goblin without the knight mage’s assistance, though in retrospect she was still secretly grateful.

Then she realized that all three maids would stay to help her bathe.  One even brought her a glass of rich red wine, mulled and laced with fruit juice, while she was scrubbed.  Nor did Lady Amara leave.  Instead she took the time to get to know Frightful, with whom she was fascinated, and continue to chat with Dara as if they were in a tavern.

Why does anyone need help bathing? she asked herself, as one of them began rubbing a soapy concoction into her hair, while another began washing her face with a cloth.  Dara got frustrated, and almost grabbed one of the cloths away from the girl . . . but then she remembered she was supposed to be gracious, and let the servants do their work.

It was nice, she reflected soon after, to have someone waiting with the largest, fluffiest towel she’d ever seen, made of the finest Gilmoran cotton and warmed up by the fire before enveloping her.

But then Lady Amara and her maids started asking her to try on clothes, and the experience went from luxurious to tedious.

Honestly, Dara didn’t understand why anyone, no matter how noble, needed that many clothes.  She had several sets, herself, at least three or four sturdy woolen gowns and some linen shifts and underclothes, but Lady Amara displayed enough pretty dresses to clothe an entire village that afternoon.

Dara eventually settled on three understated dresses that she found weren’t too itchy, two in different shades of green and one in a dramatic scarlet that Amara said made her look like Briga, herself.  While being compared to a goddess was flattering, Dara felt guilty about it.  She chided herself for being an unsophisticated peasant and tried to forget about it.

Still, it was comforting that, after shedding her armor and scrubbing away the muck, putting on a clean, fresh shift and one of the green dresses, Lady Amara stood back and pronounced her “a girl, again.”

“Some jewelry, a proper wimple, and we’ll be ready,” she finally decided.

“Ready?  For what?  Is the banquet tonight?”

“Oh, goddess, no!” Lady Amara said with mock horror.  “They’ll take their sweet time to organizing that.  Half of the nobility are still seeing to their estates.  The Spellmonger hasn’t even arrived – that’s when the real celebrations will happen.

“But there will be a small gathering tonight at House Vaver.  Baron Maydine wants a chance to meet you before you’re too swamped with admirers to speak to him.  He’s important,” Amara stressed.  “Father said he’s one of the most important voices on the council.  And his nephew is a warmage.  Magelord,” she corrected.  “Magelord Mavone.  Do you know him?”

“Not personally,” Dara admitted, reluctantly.  “But I’ve heard of him.”

“Well, Mavone thinks you should meet several people, starting with the Baron,” Amara informed her.  “He’s having a small dinner at his home tonight.  Lady Pentandra said you would be happy to go.”

Dara felt powerless, but didn’t see the harm.  Of course,” she smiled, as politely as she could.  “Anything Lady Pentandra suggests is as good as an order from Master Minalan.  I’d love to go to dinner with a baron!” she said. She resolved not to fart in front of the noble.

But inside, she knew she’d much rather run and go find her father and brothers, and then head back to Sevendor.

On foot, if they needed to.

Chapter Twelve

Lady Amara of Siviline House

The next few days was a whirlwind of events: breakfast parties, luncheons, receptions, and even a tournament, as the city began feting the returning troops.  The Spellmonger, it was said, was chasing the goblins out of Gilmora – it would be a few more days before he arrived.  Before she plunged into the festivities, however, Dara learned just how difficult her task would become.  Dara knew more precisely what was happening, thanks to the appearance at the door of Siviline House of Sir Festaran, just after breakfast the next morning.

The young knight mage was in a freshly-laundered surcoat of Sevendor green, a matching sash bearing the Snowflake – the device her master had selected as his own – over one shoulder.  His green mantle was thrown back over the other.  He still wore his hauberk, as always, and he bore his long cavalry sword on his hip, but otherwise he was dressed for city life.

Lady Amara’s servants admitted him, after he presented his credentials and his request to see Dara.  Indeed, he had used her full name when making the request, the maid reported.

“Is he handsome?” Lady Amara asked the girl, unexpectedly.

“Oh, Ishi’s grace, yes, m’lady!” she assured her.  “Tall, well-made, and dark haired.  A noble bearing and a youthful gleam of wit in his eye,” the girl dutifully reported.

“Oh, how exciting!” Lady Amara said, clapping her hands together.  “Tell the good knight that we’ll be down in a moment, as soon as we’re dressed!”

“Aye, m’lady!” she said, scurrying away, beaming and giggling.

“What?” Dara demanded.  “I’m already dressed!”  Indeed, she’d pulled on her gown from the long, boring but delicious dinner the night before.

“You cannot wear that when you have a gentleman calling upon you!” reproved Lady Amara.  “That wouldn’t be proper!”

Before she knew it, Amara’s maids, under her direction, had stripped Dara and re-dressed her in the darker green gown, and then added the necklaces she’d acquired.  There were three, now, after the Baroness herself and her daughter had each given her one of theirs.

It took almost half an hour for Dara to appear downstairs, once her hair had been brushed out and her face quickly painted by one of the maids.  The entire process was itchy and confusing, and only her promise to Pentandra that she would be a model representative kept her from expressing her frustration.

It’s only Sir Festaran, after all! she complained to herself.  I’ve seen him dozens of times!  I rode with him to Barrowbell just yesterday!

But as she and Lady Amara descended the staircase to meet him, she found that she was grateful that Amara had made the effort.  The surprised look in Sir Festaran’s eye was enough to make it worthwhile.

“My ladies!” he said, with a low and graceful bow.  “Thank you for your indulgence this morning.  I am Sir Festaran of Hosly,” he announced, unnecessarily.  “Knight mage and vice-castellan to the Spellmonger of Sevendor, here bearing a message for Maid Lenodara of Westwood, called the Hawkmaiden, on behalf of Lady Pentandra.”

Dara was about to snort and call out his overly-formal presentation, but Lady Amara spoke first.  And far more civilly.

“And I am Lady Amara of House Siviline, and bid you welcome to our house, brave knight,” she said, as she led Dara into the hall by her elbow.  “May I offer you wine?”

“That would be gracious of you, Lady Amara,” Sir Festaran said with a nod.

Wine? Dara thought, disbelieving. We just had breakfast!

But she kept her mouth shut as Amara summoned a servant, who seemed prepared with a bottle and three silver goblets.  Amara made a great show of pouring each glass half-full before offering one to Sir Festaran, and then to Dara, before taking one herself.

“I see you found a bath, Maid Dara,” Sir Festaran noted.  “One of the best things about battle is the bath afterward, I’ve found.  And I must admit, that dress looks lovely on you, with your hair,” he added, as he accepted his cup.

“Isn’t her hair beautiful?” Amara agreed, pushing a shock of it out of Dara’s face.  “That brilliant red is so rare, here in Gilmora, and that streak of white is so striking!  I thought the deep green suited her, especially with her pretty eyes,” she added, with a smile.

Dara started to feel nauseated.

“Oh, I have always admired the Hawkmaiden’s eyes,” Sir Festaran agreed, much to Dara’s surprise.  There was nothing special about her eyes, and no particular reason why he should admire them.  But as embarrassing as that was, he continued.  “Why, they’re as sparkling as your own, my lady.”  Dara could tell how pleased her new friend was at the compliment, and could see her react with such deliberation that she could not take it any longer.

“You said you had a message?” Dara blurted out as she blushed furiously.  She was suddenly very uncomfortable – both with the attention they were paying her, and with the sudden attention Sir Festaran was paying to Lady Amara.  “From Pentandra?” she stressed.

“Of course, to business,” Sir Festaran said, straightening . . . though his eyes lingered on Lady Amara’s pretty face.  “I was tasked to bring you news on my way to see to the wounded.  Master Icorad the Healer arrived in the night, and he reports that Sire Cei should recover quickly and fully,” he announced.

“Oh, that is good news!” Dara said, with a sigh.  She hadn’t realized how much she was worried about the castellan, but now that she knew he would recover, she felt an enormous sense of relief.  She’d heard of those who hadn’t survived the battle, and some were good Sevendori folk.  People she’d known all her life, like Gorker the Guard, and the quiet headman of Gurisham whose name she could never remember.  Now, she never would have to.

But hearing that Sire Cei would be all right was a genuine relief.  She’d been in attendance when he’d been wed to Lady Estret, before the Magic Fair, and she hated to think of the beautiful Riverlord noblewoman to be widowed twice.  Dara was starting to understand the important role the Wilderlands knight played back home in Sevendor.  Any man from the castle her father grudgingly admitted was fair and honest was a boon.  And after the awful chance Sire Cei took in charging the dragon single-handedly, it would be horribly unfair if he’d fallen.

“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.”

“But . . . what am I to learn?”

“Etiquette,” Pentandra said, listing items with her fingers.  “Manners, customs, protocols, forms of address, fashions, gossip, innuendo, idiom, mannerisms . . . how to act like a young noblewoman, and speak as if you’ve been at court your entire life.”

“At court?” Dara asked in disbelief.  “She can do that?  Because . . . I don’t think I can!”

“It’s nothing beyond your capabilities, Hawkmaiden,” Astyral said, cheerfully.  “Minalan assured us you have the wit and talent to do this.  He was quite confident.”

“Do not underestimate the importance of your role, Dara.  The hard part will be gaining their attention for more than a moment,” Mavone said, sullenly.  “That’s where you come in: as a young, popular, and vibrant symbol.  One who can keep their focus.  These Cotton Lords have a bad habit of ignoring matters of import, in favor of discussing their hounds, hawks, horses and estates.”

“The focus needs to be on the greater war,” Lady Pentandra agreed.  “And the importance of the magi to that purpose.  We must keep them thinking about the dangers just outside their gate – not in the distant Wilderlands, but here, in Gilmora.”

“Sheruel the Dead God is the real threat,” nodded Astyral.  “He’s not going to stop sending goblins against us.  Once the battle is over, we must turn our attention to the longer-term war.  To that end, we must energize the Gilmorans to not only defend themselves, and fortify their lands, but encourage them to agitate for similar measures in other lands.”

“Few of them take the threat of gurvani seriously, until there are a thousand of them at their gates.  And then it is too late,” Mavone pronounced.

“And you want . . . me to do all that?” Dara asked, skeptically.

“Oh, not you alone!” Astyral chuckled.  “We’ll all be playing our part.  Mavone and I will be the local boys who-did-well-in-the-world, coming back in the nick of time to save our town.  Sire Cei will be the big hero, the Dragonslayer.  Tyndal and Rondal will be making the rounds, showing off for the girls and being their usual charming rascally selves . . . if they don’t kill each other.  Terleman and Taren are speaking to the military authorities, convincing them of our utility, and Planus is speaking to the merchant classes of the wonders of magic.  Gareth is speaking with the spellmongers in town.  Baron Arathanial and his folk are appealing as fellow mundane nobles who live near to magelands.  We are all doing our part.”

“And our part,” Pentandra emphasized, “will be to convince the wives and daughters of Barrowbell that having wizards around is a good thing.  Which means going to parties, balls, and banquets, answering the same stupid questions over and over, and being charming, entertaining, inspiring, and entirely ideal representatives of our profession while we are their guests.”

“Meanwhile,” Mavone added, “be observant of any who seem skeptical of our intentions, or who clearly bear us ill.  Take note of their names and pass them to us.  Plots have always abounded in Barrowbell.  If you see one, let us know.  We need to understand who are enemies here are, as well as our friends.”

Pentandra nodded.  “That will be even more important, in a week or two.  This is . . . highly confidential,” she emphasized, looking at both girls pointedly.  “Order business . . . but I hope I can count on keeping it to yourself,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

“A lady prides herself on her discretion,” Lady Amara assured her.  “She does not betray her friends’ confidences.”

“Good.  Well, word reached us this morning . . . and I haven’t even told the Spellmonger, yet,” she said, guiltily.  “But there will be another sixty thousand troops arriving from the south and east in a week or so.  Led personally by King Rard.”

Dara heard Lady Amara gasp.  “The King?  Is coming to Barrowbell?”

“Indeed,” Astyral said, gravely.  “Which puts us into even deeper waters, politically.  Rard seeks to show his noblemen the value of his new crown in terms they respect.  That he comes to the contentious province of Gilmora in its hour of need, at the head of a mighty army, to the thanks and adulation of its people, is what he requires.”

“When he arrives, it will be to reward the Spellmonger for his service,” Mavone agreed.  “He will also be taking the temperature of the land, so to speak, to see how he is perceived.  To most he is still the Duke of Castal . . . and many Gilmoran families remember the Alshari sovereignty fondly.”

Lady Amara looked a little guilty, but Mavone smiled.  “For good or ill, we are all under one crown, now,” he said.  “As much as some of us would favor the Anchor and Antlers of Alshar, the folk of Gilmora have been content to serve under the Rose and Sword . . . for now,” he added.  “So we will fete and honor this king who brings relief.  And we will ensure that he does not forget the service of the magi in this land’s defense.”

“But wherever His Majesty goes,” Pentandra informed her, “you can be assured that he is . . . watched.  Accompanied by agents, his own and others.  A stray word in the wrong ear could turn fortunes, in this climate.  There are stirrings of rebellion in Alshar, and murmurs of resentment in Wenshar.  Which means that the Arcane Orders are in a delicate position.

“And that means that we may need to call upon your services not just as mage or Hawkmaiden,” Pentandra said.  “But perhaps as a spy.”

Chapter Thirteen

Hunting With An Owl

Dara watched Frightful’s magnificent wings fold against her body as the falcon dove towards her prey in the grass below: a brown rabbit nibbling at the last ragged shoots of clover in a meadow.

She regretted not joining her bird for her triumphant dive – that was the most thrilling part of the hunt, more exciting than the actual capture and victorious call after a kill.  The sensations of speed, hunger, excitement were just as primal in her as they were in the falcon, and when they experienced it together it was especially delicious.

But today she contented herself with merely observing from afar.  She was perched on Doughty’s back, her wimple blowing in her face, while the ladies around her oohed and ahhed at Frightful’s attack.  And there were a lot of them gathered to take note.

When Lady Amara organized a Ladies’ Hawking Party at a friend’s estate, just south of town, she was swamped with the number of women who wanted to attend.  Dara was amused by the interest – she just needed to fly Frightful, after days of being cooped up in a mews or perched on her fist at parties.

But Amara used the necessity as a means of introducing Dara to some of the more important ladies in Barrowbell society, so the day was spent with far more ceremony and discussion than Dara was used to on a hunt.

She preferred to fly Frightful early in the morning or at dusk, when more creatures were stirring, but propriety dictated that ladies did no rise for such pursuits that early, and had more important things to do at dusk than hunt.  Hawking for ladies was a noontide affair, regardless of how fewer opportunities for prey there might be.

In this instance, that was fine.  While Frightful was hunting a hare, Dara was hunting an Owl.

By the time the “hunting party” departed the pretty manor house at Lavender Hill manor, the dozen-odd noblewomen, each with at least one retainer afoot, rode their ponies and palfreys down to the meadow which had been designated for their use.  Considering the care with which they dressed, it looked to Dara as if they were going to a ball, not a hunt.  She could not argue with how pretty the dresses were, but then she was getting used to the rich and colorful garb of the Barrowbell folk.

But they were not particularly practical for hawking, Dara noted.  She soon learned why.

Most of those ladies “hawking” were actually accompanied by servants, the falconers employed by their houses to keep the mews and train the birds on the nobles’ behalf.  When a Barrowbell maiden “hunted”, it consisted of her accepting the falcon from her servant on an overly-ornate gauntlet, allowing her friends to coo about how pretty and fast the bird was, and then return it to the servant, who then proceeded to fly the bird.  That was the extent of interaction with the falcon.

Then half of the servants would walk out into the meadow to “beat the bushes” and scatter potential prey while the birds were in the air.  That was scandalous to Dara: Frightful didn’t need any help to hunt.  She’d find that incredibly hurtful and condescending.

But then the birds the ladies of Barrowbell usually hunted were tiny, compared to her.  Custom dictated that noblewomen use more “ladylike” birds, with an emphasis on speed and beauty, than larger, more effective hunters.  The next-largest bird on the hunt, compared to Frightful, was just over half her size, a large female merlin.  Most of the birds the ladies flew were smaller males, dainty tiercels of merlins or kestrals.  They were good hunters, she knew, but only for smaller rodents and birds.

Dara felt the entire affair a complete waste of time, for the ladies, and would have said so if she hadn’t learned caution and discretion so quickly and thoroughly from Pentandra’s maid.  Now she knew better how to speak of such things in “polite society” . . . and when to keep her fool mouth shut.

Lady Amara had been instrumental in learning that lesson.  Once Dara had overcome her sense of betrayal at Amara’s frank assessment of her, she was enthusiastic and encouraging as Latra, a small, dusky-complected Remeran servant, calmly but insistently instructed Dara on “proper behavior among the aristocracy”.

Nor was it mere lecture.  Before the oddly-dressed maid began her instruction, Lady Pentandra had cast a spell on her – one from her family archive, she assured her, designed to make a child more suggestive and receptive to study.  Another spell, before Pentandra and the Gilmoran magi began to talk to her that evening, was to help her maintain her composure and discretion.  Both were temporary, she was assured, but the knowledge she gained would linger after the effects of the spells faded.

It was a brutal afternoon, she recalled, but highly instructive.  Latra approached the subject practically, and did not insult Dara about her ignorance of social customs.  Nor did Amara tease her or deride her at her efforts.  Instead she helpfully offered suggestions or supplied details about local customs Latra was unfamiliar with.  When Dara became frustrated at the process – which happened with increasing regularity, as the hours grew long – Amara was supportive and sympathetic.

More importantly, to Dara’s mind, Lady Amara did not judge her about her common status or ignorance of the customs of the nobility.  She accepted them, and did not let them get in the way of their friendship.

Indeed, Amara seemed to relax a bit when she learned the truth.  Dara appreciated that.  One thing she disliked about most of the nobility was the almost ritualistic approach to social customs about things that most people dealt with by means of common sense.  There was an artificial nature to Barrowbell society that Dara was wary of, something that reinforced her commoner’s belief that all nobles were deceitful.

But Latra had corrected some of her perceptions, her exotic accent explaining the basis of the customs and even supplying some thoughtful reasoning why they were in place.  It went beyond understanding which forms of polite address to use with which noble – Latra had explained why it was important, in the greater social fabric of Gilmora. As confusing as the lessons had been at the time, Dara had a lot better understanding of what she was doing, now.  And much better means of contending with her mission.

“My ladies, if you will direct your attention above, you’ll see Frightful about to take a hare,” she announced in a clear and deliberate manner.  She spoke with confidence, and knew better how to phrase her interactions.  “The Silver Hooded Raptor is famous for its speed and keen sight.”

“Ah, it looks like Beauty is after the same prey!” called a slender noblewoman excitedly, as she shaded her eyes with a gloved hand.  Sure enough, when Dara glanced above, she saw a delicate gray kestrel also diving.  Though the bird was closer to the ground, in Dara’s opinion Frightful would get to the hare first.

That was Lady Angret’s opinion, too – she was the older matron who insisted on flying her own bird, and one of the few among them who seemed more enthusiastic about the hunt than she was about meeting the Hawkmaiden.

“Oh, that Raptor is going to beat it soundly!” the older woman called, confidently.

“But Beauty is much closer, and he’s terribly swift!” the slender noblewoman – Lady Mardine, Dara recalled, the daughter of a prominent master weaver who’d married an elderly knight – insisted as her smaller bird competed for the prize.

There were a few held breaths as both birds descended . . . but Frightful’s brown wings were the first to spread as she pounced on the hare.  Beauty landed a few heartbeats later, just as Frightful was breaking the rabbit’s neck.

“Win for the Hawkmaid!” called Angret, triumphantly.  “What a beautiful bird!”

“Ungainly, if you ask me,” Lady Mardine frowned.  “Beauty could have taken that prize!”

“Frightful did take that prize, my dear,” Angret said, without affection.  “Sometimes ungainliness is not as important as beauty, when your dinner is on the line.  Well hunted, Maid Lenodara!” she praised.

“The credit belongs to my falcon, my lady,” Dara demurred.  Never take credit unduly, if you can avoid it, she heard Latra’s accent insisting in her mind.

“And thence to her trainer,” Lady Angret approved.  “You did train her yourself?” she asked, curiously.

“From a hatchling, my lady,” Dara nodded.  “Sevendor had no formal mews or falconer, so I had to teach myself and Frightful.”  She was far more comfortable discussing falconry than she was dragonslaying, battle, magic, the Spellmonger, or anything else.  It was a language she understood, the world she knew best.

“Such a remarkable girl!” the matron said.  Dara got the impression that she was more impressed with that than the role she’d played in the Battle of Cambrian Castle.  She nodded approvingly as the servants rushed forward to take the kill from Frightful.  Dara hated not retrieving the kill herself, but Amara assured her that noblewomen did not handle such distasteful things as blood and viscera.  Instead she waited patiently atop Doughty and listened to the noblewomen pretend they were hunting.

“My father had a grand Kuline’s Peregrine for years, when I was a girl,” Angret told her, fondly.  “What a magnificent bird!  They say Orvatas the Sky God’s messenger is a Peregrine . . . Father named him Calsat, after that holy bird.  But I’d venture your Frightful is nearly its match.”

“She’s still growing, my lady,” Dara pointed out.  “She may yet match Calsat, yet.”

“Does that not border on blasphemy?” Lady Mardine snorted.

“Do the gods not present themselves as examples for us to aspire to?” Dara countered, as she’d been taught the night before.  “Only the most narrow-minded would mistake adoration for blasphemy,” she said, lightly.

“Oh, I do like your spirit, Lenodara!” called the creaky voice Lady Finarva.  That was music to Dara’s ears.  She was the noblewoman whom Mavone and Astyral said it was most important to impress, today.  The Dowager Owl.

Lady Finarva of Glaucid had no official title in Barrowbell, or position in Gilmora’s government, but she was the woman they’d identified who controlled the opinions of the others in Barrowbell’s aristocrat-heavy society.

Her family was one of the oldest in Barrowbell, Lady Pentandra informed Dara the night before.  House Glaucid was among the first Alshari settlers who first came to the fertile Gilmoran plains.  Through the years, they’d become distinguished players in the politics of the region, including the controversial Gilmoran Rebellion that brought the prosperous region under the banner of the Duke of Castal, fifty years before.  Lady Finarva’s grandfather was one of the victorious barons who signed the Peace of Barrowbell, in this very town.  The owl was her house’s symbol, and she was known as the Dowager Owl, after her husband died at a ripe old age.

She reigned over a web of abbesses, noblewomen, distinguished widows, and prominent burgher’s wives that controlled the social life of Barrowbell’s prosperous aristocracy.  A whisper from her in the right ear could make or destroy a house, Astyral assured.  She had spent years positioning herself as a power behind the scenes, and securing a good opinion from her was considered an essential task.

Charm her, Astyral had insisted.  She admires strength and confidence, and hates social pretension.  She raised three spirited daughters, and saw them married to barons and counts.  She listens more than she speaks, but when she speaks, all ears listen.  Convince her of your quality, and half our work is done.

That had proven difficult – true to Astyral’s words, Lady Finarva had barely spoken on the outing.  But Dara noted she observed every word that every other woman spoke with hawk-like attention.

“Thank you, Lady Finarva,” Dara said, as graciously as she could . . . and that was much better, after hearing Latra’s firm lectures on the subject the night before.  “Perhaps I’m strongly-spoken due to a lack of a mother’s influence – she died bearing me – but my father always encouraged me to speak forthrightly.”  It was a kind of a code, Dara realized, like magical sigils or the letters of the alphabet.  She just had to understand how to speak it.

“You poor girl!” Lady Finarva murmured, her lips pursed under her wimple.  “Yet you’ve thrived remarkably, it seems.”

“A matter of circumstance and fortune, my lady,” Dara said, shaking her head.  “The Spellmonger transforms us all,’ she elaborated, fingering the one white strand of hair in her mane of scarlet, “and those closest to him the most.”

That was also key, Mavone had insisted in his lecture before the party.  Elevating the Spellmonger to a figure of power and positive change was key to the Arcane Order’s plans.  Using the white streak she’d gained the night of the Snow That Never Melted – a distinctive mark on a distinctive head – Dara demonstrated the transformative power of the new order.

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 ways 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 can’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

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 cinders!” 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.

“To do as I ask, trusting I know what I’m doing!” Dara pleaded.  “We don’t have much time!”

“I’ll dance, I’ll dance!” Gareth assured, though he did not look particularly convinced.

Dara left the two to guard her friends while she continued to search for Maid Ninda . . . and Sister Daria.  The novice was the key, she knew.  If there was a plot, then she was the one who would ferret information back to her brother, Sanfor the Censor.  That was what was behind Ninda’s inquiry, she realized, not a need to hurry her seamstress.  The girls were trying to gain intelligence of exactly when Master Minalan would arrive.  Maid Ninda had been trying to get close to Dara since she’d arrived, Dara recalled.  To think that she wanted Dara to stay with her at her house . . .

She was suddenly thankful that Pentandra had arranged for her to stay with Amara for entirely different reasons.

But, she realized, she could also use this to her advantage, if she moved quickly enough.  She continued to thread her way through the crowd, by-passing dancers and guild stewards hauling platters from the kitchen to the tables, her eyes darting around like Frightful’s looking for lunch.

Then she spotted one of them: a vapid-looking girl in a pale golden gown she’d recognized as lurking behind Maid Ninda, earlier.

“Pardon, my lady,” Dara said, affecting her best guilty look.  As the youngest sister, it was not an unpracticed expression.  “I wanted to . . . say that I was sorry my new friends.  They were unkind,” she said, truthfully.

“Well, you are new to Barrowbell,” the girl said, condescendingly.  “You couldn’t know about those petty little—”

“In any case,” Dara continued, before she was subjected to a politely-worded insult, “I didn’t think it was right that Maid Ninda suffer for their rudeness.  Is she planning a splendid gown for the occasion?” she asked with what she hoped was an appropriate amount of interest.

“Oh, it will be incredible – her father has spent nearly six stags on it, so far, and it’s only partially done.  If the Spellmonger arrives before its complete, she’ll be ruined!”  There was slightly more insincerity in her voice than needed, Dara detected

“Well, I cannot be responsible for that,” Dara said, solemnly.  “On my honor, I believe my master will be arriving five days hence, after securing the battlefield and seeing to his men.  He is expected to arrive by barge on the west river,” she added, though she knew no such thing.  It was the kind of detail she hoped would make the tale believable.  When she lied to Aunt Anira, she usually tried to throw in such a detail as support.

The girl nodded graciously.  “Thank you,” she said, nodding, not bowing.  “I know Maid Ninda will make good use of this.”

I have no doubt that she will, Dara thought to herself.  In fact, I’m counting on it!

Dara quietly slipped away as the girl was approached by another, and retreated into an alcove to observe.  It took a few moments, but soon the maid sought out Ninda, who seemed in close counsel to a well-dressed young burgher along the wall of the expansive hall.  Ninda glanced around and said a few words to her friend, and then set off toward the main entrance of the hall.

Dara followed as discretely as she was able, pulling her mantle over her distinctive gown and hugging the walls, thankful that her lack of stature made it harder for her to be spotted in the crowd..  She observed Ninda greeting several acquaintances along the way, but she lingered with none of them; the girl went nearly directly to meet with her friend the temporary novice, Sister Daria.

Had she done anything else, Dara might have dismissed her thoughts of a conspiracy as mere paranoia.  A dance, a drink, another pass at Astyral, any of those might have convinced Dara that she was imagining things.  But Maid Ninda chose to act entirely as one who was involved in a conspiracy by seeking out the novice.

The new-made novate was outside on the grand landing of the Dyer’s Hall, along with dozens of others who sought the fresh air.  Sister Daria was conversing with three young men – more burghers, Dara decided – while smoking a pipe and shifting her dog from under one arm to the other.

Maid Ninda approached and said a few words, greeted the boys with a smile and an indecent shake of her hips, then whispered in Sister Daria’s ear.  Dara cursed to herself that she wasn’t close enough to hear, or knew the spells to listen in like Tyndal and Rondal did. But she could see the young novice’s eyes brighten.  In a moment, both girls made excuses and headed back to the door of the hall . . . but while Maid Ninda went inside, Sister Daria descended the stone stairs down to the cobbled street.

Cinders and ashes! she swore to herself.  She’s going to tell him right now!

Dara didn’t know what to do.  She couldn’t go following Sister Daria through Barrowbell’s darkened streets and not be seen by the novice.  Nor did she wish to go beyond the ready rescue of her friends, if she were discovered.  If Sanfor the Censor really was conspiring against her master, she needed to discover where he was and put a stop to it.

If only Frightful was around . . . but her falcon was back at Siviline House in their small mews.  Dara considered abandoning caution and following her anyway, when she saw a bat swoop over the lanterns in front of the hall to catch a snack.

Wait!  I’m a beastmaster! Dara remembered.  She calmed her mind and tapped into the energy of the witchstone in her pouch and reached out her consciousness.  The bat’s tiny mind was a feeble spark, unsophisticated and uncomplicated, but that merely meant that Dara had an easier time connecting to it, and imposing her will.

Follow that sound! Dara ordered the beast.  While she’d never liked bats, she didn’t hesitate to use the little creature to track Sister Daria.  She was surprised – the flying beast would not accept her mental image of Daria.  But it did recognize the footsteps Dara indicated.  In a half-stupor, the bat began seeking out the sound with the same determination it had hunted mosquitos and moths.

It was difficult to maintain the connection with a new animal and do anything else, but Dara was desperate.  She needed to find out where Sister Daria was meeting her brother, but she didn’t want to do so alone.

Unfortunately, wherever Lady Pentandra had gone, Mavone and Astyral had disappeared to as well.  None of her allies were evident in the hall . . . none save the ones she’d made.  Gareth and Festaran were each dancing, Gareth with Maid Zodine and Sir Festaran with Lady Arrel, who looked absolutely thrilled with the Riverlord’s attention.

It was one of the silly slow and stately dances the Gilmorans seemed to favor, she noted critically, the kind designed for no better purpose than to show of the dancer’s pretty clothes . . . and as tepid a step as it was, Gareth was still performing it poorly.  Thankfully, the minstrels were at the end of the song as she arrived.

“Gareth, Festaran, I need you,” she said, as the dancers came to a stop and politely applauded the musicians.  She tried her best to maintain her tenuous connection with the bat.  “It’s the matter I spoke of before . . .”

“Really?” Gareth asked, surprised.

“Of course,” Festaran nodded.  He turned to Lady Arrel.  “If you will excuse me, my lady, I have a duty to attend to.”

“What has happened?” Lady Amara asked, concerned, as she glided up behind Sir Festaran.

“I laid a trap and flushed out a plot,” Dara answered, simply.  “Your suspicions were correct,” she added, with a nod.  “Now we need to act.”

“What?  What happened?” Maid Zodine asked, confused.  “Are we not dancing anymore?”

“Is there a concern, Hawkmaid?” Lady Arrel asked, concerned.  “What can we do?”

Dara thought furiously.  If Sanfor was, indeed, plotting to strike at Master Minalan, as she suspected, she needed to act quickly.  But she also needed to inform Lady Pentandra, and the other members of the Arcane Order.

“Find Lady Pentandra,” Dara directed her new friend.  Lady Irabel, who was just joining them, caught on quickly and nodded.  “Or Magelord Astyral, or Magelord Mavone.  Find any of them, and let them know that I found . . . I found something.  I am taking Gareth and Festaran to pursue it, but if they would like to join me . . .”

“How will they find you?” asked Irabel, confused.

“Magic,” Dara answered, as Gareth and Festaran pulled their mantles over their shoulders.  “That’s the sort of thing wizards do.”

“Is it . . . is it important?” Lady Arrel asked, hesitantly.

Dara couldn’t help but think of Maid Ninda’s comment, earlier in the evening.

When the Spellmonger arrives, who your friends are might be telling

That will be the least of his concerns

“Incredibly,” Dara nodded.  “Possibly more important than slaying a dragon!”

Chapter Fifteen

A Chase In The Dark

It took nearly everything Dara had to maintain her slender connection to the bat . . . but she was good.  You had to be, to be a beastmaster with a falcon for a familiar.  Once she made the mental acquaintance of an animal, she had no trouble recognizing it automatically.  As she led Festaran and Gareth through Barrowbell’s streets, she was able to determine that her new animal friend was east of her, if nothing else.

“This way!” she insisted, plunging into the gloom.  Barrowbell had regular streetlights along its avenues, as well as the famed magelights along the main thoroughfares, but in the knee-high mists that seemed to flood the town every evening, the ornate lamps did little more than illuminate a pool around their base.

“Are you certain you know where you’re going, Dara?” Festaran asked.

“Of course she does!” Gareth said, defensively.  “Just what are we going after?” he added, when he realized he had no idea of Dara’s intended destination.

“We’re following a bat,” Dara said, annoyed, as she continued through the misty streets.

“Moving on from dragons, are we?” Gareth asked, confused.

“It’s a bat who is tracking a nun by her footsteps,” Dara said, distractedly.  She could feel her little friend’s presence, above her, but then there were dozens of bats in the air overhead.

“And we need a priestess . . . why?  Is someone getting married?”

“It’s complicated,” Dara dismissed.  “Left!” she added, as she suddenly turned and raced down another darkened street.

“She knows what she’s doing!” insisted Lady Amara’s voice from behind her.  Dara stopped, her errand almost forgotten.

“Amara?  What by the Flame are you doing here?” she demanded, whirling to face her friend.

“You said you needed help!” Amara said, a little guiltily.

“From Gareth and Festaran,” Dara pointed out.  “This is a matter for the Arcane Orders, not you!”

“So, do they know how to find their way around Barrowbell at night?” Lady Amara countered.

“My lady makes a compelling argument,” Sir Festaran said, eyeing the strange streets.

“Fine!  Let’s go!  They’re just a few blocks from here . . . I think . . .” she said, resigning herself to having Lady Amara along.  She was an adept socialite and a great friend, but if the Censorate was involved, this was a dangerous situation, Dara knew.

“Who?” Gareth demanded, though he did not slow.

“One of the girls at the reception has a brother who’s a mage,” Amara explained, succinctly, as she ran on her dancing slippers.  “For the Censorate.  He’s here in Barrowbell, and his sister, the nun I’m tracking, is trying to find out exactly when the Spellmonger will arrive.  You can figure out the rest!” she said, panting.

“Ishi’s lips!” Gareth swore.  “The bloody Censorate?  Here?”

“Just the one, as far as we know,” Dara supplied, as she honed in on where her little flying friend had tracked the nun.  “But then we don’t know very much.  Gareth!  Can you quiet our steps, keep us from being overheard as we approach?”

“On it!” the wizard agreed, and began casting a spell.

“Festaran, that bat is directly over her,” Dara reported, pointing toward a spot in the sky where she felt the bat might be.  “That’s the next street over.  Do you think you can move around and come up the street from the other way?  I want to cut off their escape route!”

“Done, my lady,” Festaran said, drawing his sword and striding into the night.

“Where do you think they’re meeting?” Gareth asked.

“There’s a fountain near there,” Amara suggested.  “A famous meeting place for lovers at night.  A lad and a lass conversing there would not arouse suspicion, at this hour.  And they would be able to see anyone approaching, from either way,” she added.

“If they hear us approach, they’ll be gone in the shadows before we can discover their plan,” Dara muttered to herself.

“I could try a Long Ears spell,” Gareth said, quietly, as his cantrip enshrouded their feet in a magical force that deadened their footfalls.  “But I need line-of-sight to cast it.  If I get that close, she’ll see me!”

“Can that bat not listen in?” Lady Amara asked.  “Lore says that their ears are better than their eyes.”

“They are,” Dara nodded, “and it could . . . but if it does not have the wit to understand what it hears, I cannot comprehend . . .” she said, trailing off.

“What?” demanded Gareth.  “What is it?”

“Her bloody little dog!” Dara exclaimed, recalling the beast under Daria’s arm, and it’s gaudy collar.  “Dogs are far smarter than bats, and it’s right there under her bloody arm!”

“Can you reach it, from here?” Gareth asked, curious.

“Can she . . . what are you talking about?” asked Lady Amara.

“Dara’s a beastmaster,” Gareth explained, as he began casting other spells.  “She just didn’t use that bat to track the priestess by magic, she did it by riding behind its eyes.  Clever.  If that is a Censor there, he might be warded to detect a more direct scrying spell and flee.  And if the priestess is carrying a dog, Dara can probably contact it . . . probably,” he repeated, uncertainly.

Dara closed her eyes and abandoned her connection to the bat.  Instead she reached out her feelings until they bumped up against those of the bored little dog.

It took a while for Dara to secure the link, and she let Gareth and Amara lead her to the next corner while she did so.  She’d only met the pup for a few moments, and she hadn’t even touched it, but once she had a connection she pushed for control as hard as she’d ever done with Frightful.

The dog was bored, she quickly realized, and she was hungry.  Dara pushed the little pup’s desires aside, and focused on the conversations around it.  Unlike the bat, the dog had been around humans enough to understand the shape of their words, even if the meanings of most of them escaped her.

. . . heard it from the Hawkmaiden, herself . . . four days and the Spellmonger will be here in Barrowbell!

You’re certain? demanded the voice of a young man.  The poor dog was not facing the lad, but it could certainly smell him.  Daria, there can be no mistakes!  I pledged to my captain that I could discover when the outlaw would be here, and he has three good men of the Shirlin Order awaiting word.  You don’t disappoint the Shirlin Order, Daria! he declared, anxiously.

Calm yourself! hissed the novice. I trust this intelligence.  As stupid as that little fledgling is, she’s as honest as any other peasant.  And absolutely desperate for the approval of her betters.  But you are certain of our reward, for our part in this?

The Censorate does not forget its friends . . . or its foes, Sanfor declared.  “The money is already at the abbey, as promised.  As soon as the deed I done, I’ll be made the new Censor Captain of Gilmora.  But only after the Spellmonger is dead . . . and that traitorous duke pretending to be a king after him!

It is said he rides with the deadliest warmagi in the Five Duchies, Daria said, doubtfully.  And each of them bears irionite.  You’ve told me how deadly that can be.

You don’t know the Order of Shirlin.  They are . . . dedicated.  And they are the deadliest warmagi in the Duchies, not these mercenaries Minalan has hired.  But it is true, he will be protected . . .

Wait!  That stupid girl told me he will be coming by barge, after inspecting the defenses.  To the western port.

Likely without a strong guard, so far behind the lines, reasoned Sanfor.  Within four days, the Order can arrange for reinforcements.  We can ambush him at the docks, without the bulk of his guard!

You can rot in a dungeon with a rat for a roommate, Dara thought to herself, releasing her connection to the dog.

“All right,” she declared.  “I’ve heard all I need to.  The plot is real.”

“How real?” Gareth asked, skeptically.

“Order of Shirlin real,” she declared.  The name apparently meant something to Gareth, by how his face went pale. “Now let’s go get them!  Subtly,” she added.  “We want to surround them, not spook them.”

Dara hung back on Gareth’s suggestion, while he and Lady Amara pulled their cloaks over their head and proceeded toward the fountain, hand in hand.  Dara watched from the misty shadows as they distracted the attention of the two plotters.  Sister Daria and Sanfor quickly affected a casual attitude, as Gareth stumbled into the fountain square, his arm over Amara’s shoulders in a familiar manner.

“What?  Is this fountain occupied?” he asked in an overloud, possibly drunken voice.

“Hush!  Can’t you see she’s taken holy orders?” hissed Lady Amara, disguising her voice.  “They’re obviously having a clandestine love affair!  How forbidden!  How exciting!” she said in her faked voice.

“Peace, my friends,” Sister Daria said, raising her hand in benediction, but holding her cloaked face in shadow.  “I was simply counseling my . . . my friend about a spiritual matter,” she said, persuasively.

“Do you mind if I counsel my handsome new friend over there, good sister?” Amara asked, pointing to the other side of the fountain.  “I have a spiritual matter I’m just desperate to have him counsel me on!”

“Do what you wish,” Sanfor said, turning his back on the couple.  “We are done speaking for the evening.  Good evening, gentles, and be merry in your revels,” he said, without enthusiasm, as he began to walk away.

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 firmly 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 herself, 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.

“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 wizards 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.

“Oh, most certainly!” Pentandra agreed.  “At the head of sixty thousand troops to secure Barrowbell, and all Gilmora.  “Which is one reason I came here.  There is the matter of Daria and Sanfor.”

“They will be . . . will be tried?” Lady Amara asked, troubled.

“In a matter of speaking,” Pentandra said, deliberately.  “After their father begged for leniency, he and the magistrate came to an agreement.

“Firstly, both freely admit their guilt, repent of their treason, give the names of their confederates, and surrender themselves to the mercy of the judgement.  Sanfor will serve a seven year term in the Iron Band, starting immediately.  Daria will persist in her clerical devotions for a similar period.  In an abbey in the distant Wenshar vales.  It gets chilly there, if I recall,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

“Oh, Trygg’s grace!” Lady Amara giggled behind her hand.  “That’s terrible!”

“It’s better than a date with the hangman, which is what treason demands under the law,” Lady Pentandra conceded, sipping her wine.  “Perhaps her father can arrange a marriage with some elderly widower, after seven years.  That might be the best she can hope for, once her youth has been spent in prayer.”

“What about the other Censors?” Dara asked.

“The trio from the Shirlin Order are in a dungeon cell, under warmage guard,” she assured her.  “They put up a bit of a fight, but Astyral and Mavone are not to be trifled with.  Mavone will escort them back to Wenshar, enchanted into stupor, where they will be held in their own former citadel.  We discovered the entirety of their plot, when we questioned them.  They were to kill Minalan at all costs.  And the king, too, if they were able.”

“Flame!  What did Master Min say?” Dara asked.

“He doesn’t even know,” Lady Pentandra said, shaking her head.  “It might be a mistake, but I don’t think I want to tell him.  He has a lot on his mind right now.  Word came this morn that the three counts in Alshar have agreed to rebel against Rard’s authority and claim of kingship.”

“Oh, no!  More war?” asked Lady Amara, dismayed.

“Not in the immediate future,” Lady Pentandra conceded.  “But word has also come how angry King Rard is about the development.  No doubt he will consult with his magical experts about what we can do about it.  So bringing a minor plot, easily-foiled, to his attention at the moment might be a distraction.”

She took a long sip of her wine before she continued, staring at Dara, suddenly.  “But your quick thinking and action has not gone unnoticed.  I made certain of that.  I sent a note to an associate of mine, close to King Rard, and he agreed.  When His Majesty arrives and holds court in Barrowbell, among the honors and rewards he shall bestow will be to you.  He is ennobling you,” Lady Pentandra said, simply.

“He’s . . . he’s doing what?” Dara demanded.

“He’s elevating you to the nobility, granting you and your heirs a patent,” Pentandra explained, a smile on her face.  “For good and valuable service and laudable attention to duty.  And slaying a dragon,” she added.  “That was the convincing element of my letter, I think.”

“Dara!  You’re being ennobled!” Lady Amara said, excitedly.  Dara stared at them both in disbelief.

“You shall be known as Lady Lenodara of Westwood,” Pentandra said.  “You will be a patented, titled noble, entitled to the King’s Justice, the King’s Mercy, and all of that.  And now you will owe a noble’s duty.  Ah!  There’s more.  It comes with a grant from the Treasury,” she added.  “In addition to your pay from your service.”

“Pay?” Dara asked.  “I get pay?”

“You were part of the Magical Corps, under Minalan’s summons as Marshal,” Lady Pentandra agreed.  “That’s a half-Stag a day, silver, for the duration of your service.  That’s as much as a sergeant,” she boasted.  “But the grant from the Treasury in reward for your service is a hundred golden Roses!” Pentandra revealed.

“A hundred . . . a hundred ounces of gold?”

“That’s enough to buy an estate!” Lady Amara said, astonished.  “My dowry is as much!”

“I have an estate,” Dara said, still trying to comprehend all of this.  “The Westwood.  My father is Master of the Wood,” she reminded herself.

“And now you outrank him,” Lady Pentandra giggled.  “I expect that will be awkward for a while.  But you deserve it, Dara.  Lady Dara,” she corrected herself.  “Hawklady, hawkmaiden no more.  We’ve asked so much from you, and you’ve done far better than anyone could have asked.  Nobility, properly practiced, is conferred on the worthy.  You’ve proven the nobility.  I convinced His Majesty that it demands to be recognized properly.”

“Lady Lenodara,” Lady Amara said, trying the title on for size.  “That’s magnificent!  Congratulations, Dara!” she said, embracing her.

“I’m . . . I’m a lady,” Dara said, unsure of the words in her mouth.  “Lady . . . Lenodara.”

“Or Dara the Hawklady,” Pentandra suggested.  “No doubt you’ll be known by both, before long.  Well done, ladies,” she said, rising and giving them a curtsy.  “Well done.  House Siviline has been a great friend of the Arcane Orders, in a dangerous time to do so.  That will not be forgotten,” she assured Amara.

“The friendship shown by the Arcane Orders to the people of Barrowbell during our hour of need shall ever be remembered,” Amara agreed.

Dara didn’t even hear it.  She was still trying to comprehend what Pentandra had told her.  She . . . was a noble.  Lady Dara.

No, Lady Lenodara of Westwood.

No, part of her mind decided.  Lenodara the Hawklady.

Chapter Seventeen

The Voyage To Sevendor

“Lenodara of Westwood, you are summoned before the Crown!” the herald’s deep voice boomed through the hall of the Market Castle, Barrowbell’s official fortress.  Dara was grateful she remembered the protocols that Pentandra had drilled into her: bow, take three steps, bow, three steps, kneel until bidden to rise.  She performed the ritual as adeptly as she could, her dark purple hawkwing mantle settling around her as she knelt.

King Rard – who, until a few months ago, had been merely Duke Rard, the most powerful man in Castal – looked positively kingly as he had the deep-voiced herald read out a list of her accomplishments.

He had a great mane of blonde hair, streaked with gray, that tumbled down from his crown and joined his bushy beard across his broad chest.  He eyed her carefully, as the list of her deeds was announced to all.  In the ornate language of court they sounded quite impressive, Dara decided.  And that was absent the parts about her helping save the Spellmonger from the Censors’ plot, and possibly the King, himself.

“It is one of my happier duties to reward bravery, boldness, and excellent service to the Realm of Castalshar,” he said, in a voice almost as deep as the herald’s.  “Usually that means the bravery of knights, such as Sire Cei the Dragonslayer.”  She’d applauded and cheered as loudly as anyone as Rard had stood and embraced the Wilderlands knight, and gifted him with a thousand new gold Roses, the newly-minted coin of the newly-minted realm.

Sire Cei seemed within his element as the King graciously plied him with honors and riches – including official recognition of the title ‘Dragonslayer’, to be forever appended to his title.  That also included the commission of a poem to be read at the following year’s Royal Yule Court, so that Sire Cei’s deed would be known throughout the Kingdom.

Dara was less-used to the formalities of court, of course – she’d only been to Minalan’s court, and Baron Arathanial’s, if you wanted to be technical.  But compared to the massive crowd shouting her name in Barrowbell’s square, the few-hundred nobles and burghers in the Great Hall of the Market Castle seemed almost cozy.

Nor did she feel quite as much a peasant in court, any more – even a Royal court.  A week and more of enduring the polite society of Barrowbell had put her far more at ease in formal situations.  Once you knew the rules, the code, the way the nobility acted wasn’t that mysterious, she reflected.  It was just more complicated and complex than village life.

“But it pleases me, as the proud father of a spirited daughter, to be able to honor the bravery of one of the realm’s youngest warriors – and a spirited daughter of a proud father,” he said, nodding toward Kamen.  Her father had been surprised – no, shocked – when he realized just how much the folk of Barrowbell were familiar with Dara’s deeds, and how esteemed she was, after her appearance at endless celebrations.  When the Spellmonger called her out in front of the entire city, her brother revealed later, he openly wept with pride as the crowd chanted her name.

“Before the gods, in truth when Minalan the Spellmonger was given lands, and he chose your domain of all the others in Castal, I was surprised.  I anticipated that he would find a prosperous land and live on its bounty.  Instead, he selected an impoverished, depopulated place to try his experiment of creating a mageland.

“I was skeptical – as were many in the Court.  But I was also surprised and pleased when word reached me of his success.  Then I anticipated that, in a few years, I would have a prosperous little domain to brighten my realm.  Instead,” he continued, a smile on his face, “the Spellmonger and his allies raised an army and saved that realm, before his tenure was a year gone.

“Among his mighty accomplishments, I hear, is the tale of a girl – brave enough to tame a fledgling hawk.  Talented enough in the arcane realms to become a powerful wizard.  And clever enough to use the magic of our esteemed allies, the Alka Alon, on our behalf.  Not only did she slay as many goblins as a company of knights with its power, but she was instrumental in the defeat of a dragon, responsible for so much misery and tragedy in this peaceful land.

“If Sevendor can produce such impressive girls in its first year as a mageland under the Spellmonger’s care, then what mighty warriors might it bring forth in the future?  What great wizards will it sire?  The experiment continues . . . for the early results, as Lenodara of Westwood demonstrates, are promising.

“Therefore arise, Lady Lenodara, Magelord of Westwood, join the peerage of nobility, and be introduced to my Court.  You have our favor, and the gratitude of everyone in the Kingdom, my lady.”

When Dara rose from her position, her knees hurt – but the thunderous applause and shouts that filled the Great Hall made her quickly forget about that.  The King himself handed her the thick scroll – no mere parchment, but thick vellum, heavy with the new Royal seal.  The words were impressively calligraphed by some talented monk, and there was a brilliant illumination of one of the letters in a beautifully painted picture of a falcon.

She hoped she would actually be able to read it, one day.

There were plenty more awards and recognitions – the court lasted all morning, nearly four hours.  But she saw many of her friends honored and rewarded, which she found gratifying.

Afterwards, when the herald finally called the court closed, there was a brief period while the servants set up the trestle tables in the hall for the luncheon reception.  King Rard, accompanied by several of his household knights and ministers, received his subjects in a long line for informal greetings.

“Congratulations, Lady Lenodara!” Lady Amara squealed, offering her an elegant curtsey and a beaming smile.  Dara realized she’d have to get used to such things, now that she was ennobled.  Then she embraced her friend in a firm, enthusiastic hug.  She had to be cautious in doing so – both of them now wore dozens of golden chains, and the danger of accidentally entangling them was real.

Indeed, Dara had left most of her new golden necklaces back at Siviline House, in the strongbox the King had delivered the day before.  There were just too many for her to wear comfortably, almost fifty, now, and she’d had to choose just a few for the occasion, lest her neck break from the weight of them.

That was something else she’d have to get used to, she knew.  Being wealthy.  Indeed, being the wealthiest native Sevendori, as well as the only native Sevendori lord.

Magelord, she corrected herself, mentally.

Having more gold than all Sevendor had in decades was a heady feeling.  The idea that she could now purchase an estate as big as the Westwood or larger was foreign to her.  As was the idea that she was now, technically, of higher rank than even the Master of the Wood.  All of it would take some getting used to.

“Thank you!” Dara said, as she broke the hug.  She really was grateful for her new friend.  Amara could have turned out to be just as scheming and shallow as Maid Ninda or Sister Daria, or Lady Mardine.

Instead, she had been a steadfast and loyal friend, honest enough to tell Dara uncomfortable truths but caring enough to do so without judgement or criticism.  Of all the things she looked forward to when she got back to Sevendor, the thing she would miss most about Barrowbell was her friendship with Lady Amara.  “I couldn’t have gotten here without you!”

“Oh, I just helped around the edges,” Amara demurred.  She glanced at the long line to meet the king.  “I guess I should go get in line,” she sighed.  “Father instructed me to present myself to His Majesty.  In truth, I’d rather meet the Spellmonger, instead.”

“I can arrange that, I think,” Dara smiled.  Then something caught her eye.

Near the head of the line to meet His Majesty was the raven-haired Maid Ninda, in her raven-themed finery.  The dress truly was a magnificent display of needlework, Dara had to admit, with beautiful ravens embroidered along the hem and sleeve, neck and bodice, amidst entwining tree branches.  She stood serenely, her dark eyes flashing at the prospect of meeting the monarch.

“Oh, I hate that she escaped any punishment from the Censorate affair!” sighed Amara.  “She deserves exile even more than that idiot Daria.  But apparently asking for helpful information in order to complete a dress in a timely fashion is not considered treasonous by the lawbrothers, in and of itself.”

“A pity,” Dara agreed.  Since the incident at the Dyer’s Hall, she’d heard story after story about Maid Ninda’s petty meanness and bullying.  Even the Dowager Owl had heard of it, but then Lady Finarva heard everything, Dara realized.  And she knew how to respond to such scandals in Barrowbell.  While the details of the plot had remained safely concealed, there was a sudden increase in interest about the Maid Ninda . . . and not in a beneficial way.

“She’ll probably eak out some decent husband, simply because of her father’s money and position,” Lady Amara sighed.  “She is so nakedly opportunistic, though, you’d think any sane man would prefer exile to marriage to her.  Look at her – everyone in the city whispering about her, and she stands in front of His Majesty, bold as brass, seeking to improve her position through her appearance with him!”

Dara knew that while the gossip would continue, even a presumed relationship with a monarch or great noble could raise someone’s position.  Such was the nature of noble society, she was learning.

She frowned.  It seemed wrong, so soon after so many had been honored for their service, that Maid Ninda could use that to her social advantage.  Sometimes the gods didn’t seem very fair.

But there was an adage she’d heard around Sevendor Castle, in her association with wizards: where the gods fail, apply magic.

A fiendish idea formed in Dara’s mind.

“Lady Amara,” she said, calmly, “can you discretely look around and ensure that Lady Pentandra, Magelord Terleman, or any other responsible wizard is within sight?”

Lady Amara didn’t ask questions, she merely sipped her wine and cast her eyes around the room with the kind of sophisticated casualness Dara had come to expect in her friend.

“No, everyone seems to be well-engaged.”

Dara’s eyes narrowed.  “Good.  Let’s go see our friend, Maid Ninda, and wish her well before she’s presented.”

Lady Amara’s eyes narrowed as well.  She didn’t know what Dara was planning, but her willingness to participate spoke well of her character . . . or at least her friendship.

What Dara was about to do couldn’t be considered kind.  If farting in front of a baron could not be recovered from, she wondered what rules applied to the person of the king?

“Maid Ninda!” Lady Amara began in a pleasant, friendly tone, as they approached the girl from behind.  The raven-haired burgher’s daughter whirled at the sound of her voice, her eyes flashing anxiously.  Amara ignored her distress and focused on her gown.  “Your dress looks exquisite!  A real credit to your seamstress’ art.”

“Thank you,” Ninda said, automatically, looking suspiciously from Dara to Amara.  “What service can I do you today, my ladies?” she asked, formally, giving them a perfunctory curtsey as demanded by court etiquette.  And emphasizing the titles.

“We merely wanted to wish you good day,” Amara said, innocently.  “Perhaps meeting His Majesty could secure you an introduction to the Royal Court,” she suggested.

“That’s what Father thought, too,” Ninda agreed, warily.  “He says that since . . . since the Dyer’s Ball, I need to . . . to atone for myself,” she said, quietly.  “No thanks to you two!”

“Now, Maid Ninda,” Lady Amara said, rolling her eyes condescendingly, as the next visitor in the line went to meet His Majesty, “that is so ungracious of you.  We realize you had no true knowledge of the conspiracy – why, someone would have to be mad to entrust such a thing to . . . someone so gentle,” she said, mockingly.

“I knew nothing!” Ninda insisted, her face pale under her cosmetics.  “I beg you leave me!” she added, as she came to the front of the line.  “Allow me to meet King Rard in peace, and salvage one shred of dignity from this affair!”

“Of course,” Lady Amara agreed, giving the maiden a friendly kiss and embrace.  Dara did likewise, thought it was like embracing a serpent.

But just as she turned to leave, she cast the Gutbuster spell, still hung from the battle, on Maid Ninda’s hand.

The moment her name was announced to the King and the entire hall by the deep-voiced herald, and all eyes were turned on her, her gracious delight at meeting the monarch changed to horror as she began vomiting wildly.

Among other unfortunate reactions.

“Oh, dear,” Lady Amara said, innocently covering her mouth with her hand as everyone of importance in the crowded hall stared at Ninda and gasped.  The king looked perplexed, and the herald was rolling his eyes at the messy and fragrant display of bodily functions.

“That gown is ruined, now,” Dara nodded, sadly.  “That is such a pity.  It was such a pretty thing, don’t you think?  What a waste!”

It was another full week before Dara departed Barrowbell, first by horse, thence by barge, on the first long leg of the journey back to Sevendor.

She’d loaded her pony, Doughty, with her new treasures and her old armor, and was forced to use a few pennies to purchase a second pony to carry the incredible purchases she’d made in Barrowbell.  Yule was approaching, and she felt obligated to use some of her wealth to buy special presents for everyone she knew.  And Barrowbell offered treats and trinkets that even Sendaria-on-Bontal, didn’t offer.

There was one thing she was bringing back to Sevendor that she couldn’t wait to part with: Lady Alya’s borrowed dagger.  It had proven useful, but Dara hoped it was a long time before she had to fight for her life again.

In time she found herself on the deck of the river barge with her fellow apprentices, one afternoon, while Master Minalan and Sire Cei smoked and reflected on the high deck, above.

“Only a few more days of loafing on the river, and then we’re back home,” Tyndal moped.  “Then it’s off to Inarion Academy,” he said, sounding like he’d been sentenced to hard labor.  “We’re to get some thaumaturgical polishing.  As if we need that, after all we’ve been through!”

“We do,” Rondal said, sharply.  “You’re about as sloppy a mage as I’ve seen.  All this warmagic might be broadening, but without a better grasp of the fundamentals—”

“Well, that’ll be great by the time we actually get to War College,” Tyndal said, sarcastically.

“War College?” Dara asked, confused.

“Relan Cor,” Rondal answered.  “It’s where the arts of warfare are taught.  We’re scheduled to participate in the spring rites, there.  As if we need more training on how to swing a sword . . .”

“You look like you’re chopping wood, when you spar!” Tyndal accused.  “In any case, we’re going to be gone, for a while.  That means you’re going to be the only apprentice in Sevendor for Master Min to torment.”

“It won’t be so bad,” Rondal pointed out.  “It should be rather quiet, after two wars in quick succession.  I think three in one year might be pushing it.  Hopefully, that means you can focus on your own fundamentals for a while.  Something beyond what Gareth and Pentandra has managed to show you.”

“Just wait until he starts teaching you,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.  “At first it seems like an awful lot of fun, and then it is work, and then it’s just bloody tedious,” he complained.  “But once you start picking it up . . .”

“Don’t let him scare you,” dismissed Rondal with a wave.  “Master Min is a creampuff.  You should have met my first master.  He works for the Dead God now.”

“The hard part will be learning to concentrate on everything at once,” Tyndal continued, ignoring Rondal, as usual.  “Then remembering all of those bloody correspondences, the charts, the sigils – bah!” he said, throwing his hands up in the air.

“The mysteries of the universe in his hands, and he’s frustrated,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  “Idiot.  So, what kind of magic are you most interested in, Dara?”

Frightful chose that moment to fall out of the sky and snatch a large fish out of the river.  Dara had been grateful for the chance to let her fly, after so many days cooped up in the tiny mews of Siviline House.  She appeared on the rail of the deck a moment later, proudly dropping the fish on the deck and screeching her hunting victory.

“I don’t know . . . I was thinking of something with animals,” she said, casually.  “Am I going to have to learn warmagic?” she asked, hesitantly, as she retrieved the fish.

“Some,” Tyndal said, making a face as she slit the belly and gave the entrails to Frightful as her reward.  “If you can stand the blood and guts,” he added, looking pale at how casually she cleaned the fish.

“Somehow I don’t think that will be a problem,” Rondal chuckled.  “The real problem will be keeping an eye on Master Min.”

Dara looked up, sharply.  “Why?”

“Because we aren’t around to do it,” answered Tyndal, suddenly interested in something on the horizon, in the opposite direction from where Frightful was wolfing down the fish liver.  “He has a habit of doing all sorts of dangerous things, if we’re not around to keep him focused.”

“It’s more that without our presence, he feels less restrained,” Rondal said, annoyed at Tyndal’s observation.  “Don’t worry, with a new baby and Alya around, he’s unlikely to do anything truly mad until we return.”

“A moment, Hawklady?” came a voice from above, a voice like bells.  All three apprentices looked up at the distinctive voice, and Frightful took to the air for more fun after her snack.

Lady Ithalia, the preternaturally beautiful Alka Alon warrior who’d been so helpful in the battle, descended the steps.  Rondal and Tyndal, stumbling over themselves, excused themselves when the gorgeous woman asked to speak with the Hawklady alone.

“What can I do for you, my lady?” Dara asked, hesitantly.

“I was just admiring your pretty bird,” Ithalia said, as she watched Frightful glide over the barge.  Ordinarily a falconer wouldn’t take that kind of risk with her bird in strange country, but if Frightful wandered too far from the river Dara could summon her through her Talent.  Besides, she was having too much fun stretching her wings, finally, to keep her hooded or hacked, if she didn’t have to.  “She seems an ideal predator.”

It was an odd thing to say, but Dara couldn’t disagree.  “She’s a great hunter,” she nodded.  “When she gets her full size next year, she should be able to take nearly anything smaller than a dragon.”

“What is her full size?” Ithalia inquired.  “My people never took up the . . . sport,” she said.  “I confess it is somewhat strange to me.”

Dara was pleased to be able to share her knowledge of falconry, and for the next twenty minutes she explained how the process worked to the non-human Emissary.  Ithalia stopped her a few times and asked questions, before returning to studying Frightful.

“So she is an ideal predator, and easily trainable,” she nodded, finally.

“Well, I wouldn’t say it was easy,” Dara demurred.  “But if you can get them early enough, yes, you can train them.  If you’re a decent falconer.”

“You seem to be well-suited to the trade,” Ithalia observed.

“It takes patience, persistence, and . . . and duty,” she realized.  “When you start training a falcon, you have a duty to her.  You have to tend her every day, no matter what.  Even when I was going to parties and balls I checked on her and made sure that she was doing well.  Lady Amara thought that her servants could manage, but once you’ve invested the time and energy in training a bird, you don’t entrust that to a stranger.  Unless you have to.”

“And love,” Ithalia pointed out.  “You must love your work.  And your bird.”

“You don’t have to,” Dara considered, “but it certainly helps.  Especially when she’s being a proddy old hen and you have fantasies of strangling her.  But I wouldn’t trade her for anything,” she said, affectionately.  “She’d fight a dragon for me,” Dara assured her.

“Would she?” Ithalia asked, seriously.

“What?  Not a full-sized dragon,” giggled Dara, imagining such a thing.  She remembered the mutual terror they shared when the great beast had crossed overhead while they were flying together.   “But maybe a little one.  A tiny one.  She’s attacked snakes before, and she’ll catch a lizard if she’s feeling lazy.  If she does it while there’s better prey around, it’s her way of telling me off.”

“Interesting,” nodded Ithalia.  “I suppose it would take an entire army of hawks to really take on a dragon,” she decided.

“What?  Are you serious?” Dara asked, confused.  “I attacked one with the Thoughtful Knife, and I couldn’t pierce its hide!  Even an army of hawks wouldn’t even annoy it!  Ashes, it wouldn’t even notice them!”

“What if they had armored talons?” suggested Ithalia, contemplatively.

“They’d better be enchanted to cut steel like butter, then,” snorted Dara.  “Look, raptors are incredible predators, they really are.  They’re fast, they’re nimble, they can see forever, and in their way, they’re smart – take it from me.  But they aren’t vicious.  And they aren’t suicidal.”

“But they are nimble, they are fleet, and they have incredible vision,” Ithalia countered.  “Those, and a hunter’s spirit, could go far.”

Dara snorted again.  She knew what hawks were capable of, at least more than this Alkan lady did.  “Not to a dragon’s vitals, not in a century!  Lizards, sure.  Birds, rodents, coneys, snakes and bats, at a pinch, and no squirrel alive can dodge her.  But dragons?  My lady, you tease me.”

Ithalia bit her lip – a human gesture that looked odd on her exotic near-Alkan face.  “That is not my intention,” she assured.  “Quite the contrary.  In my conversations with Master Minalan and his colleagues, we often discus crafting new weaponry to meet the foe on the field.  Of course, the conversation usually revolves around the weapons of Alka Alon legend, or tools from the Magocracy . . . but I often think that nature provides where the imagination of man and Alkan fail.”

“What do you mean?” Dara asked, no less confused.

“Dragons are borne by the winds,” she explained.  “They are an army on wing, able to cross great distances and overfly most obstacles.  Their defenses are formidable, but if they could be slain or stopped in the air, before they can use their terrible fury on us, that would be preferable than fighting them as we did, in the midst of our ruins.”

“Well, yes,” Dara nodded.  “Perhaps a really, really big bow . . .”

Ithalia snorted.  “Slay a dragon with just one arrow?  Now who teases, Hawklady?  Nay, I desire to meet the foe in the air.  On land my people excel, but we have no skill at sea or sky.  Your ancestors amazed us with your ingenuity in both, when they arrived.  If anything can counter the fury of the worms, it will be something from your world, not mine.”

“Well, Raptors are the biggest birds there are, and the largest of them can’t take anything larger than a fat hare,” Dara said, throwing up her hands.

“Well,” Ithalia said, thoughtfully, after a long pause, “what if they were . . . bigger?”

The End

[1]* As told in Hawkmaiden