Hawkmaiden (33 page)

She had never seen so many outlandish folk!  Men in long, colorful robes, ladies of noble bearing wearing long, elegant gowns, enchanters from Remere and peddlers from southern Alshar, spellmongers, hedgemagi, witches and sorcerers of all descriptions were eagerly crowding the Commons, where the fairgrounds had been set up.  Dara paid her admission price to the keen-eyed fairwarden, swore her oath (the first time she had ever been required to do so) and entered the fairgrounds.

Most of the wares on display seemed as normal as any other market, with stacks and bundles of merchandise piled up behind fast-talking merchants.  But the nature of that merchandise was intriguing – Dara had no idea what most of it was for.  A lot of merchants seemed to be selling various rocks, or sticks, or coral, or mud, dust, dirt, sand, little bits of glass, twigs, berries, nuts, oddly-shaped pots . . . it was a bewildering array of junk
to her untrained eye.

When she saw a man pay three ounces of silver for a box of sand that could fit in her palm, Dara realized that there were valuable commodities, here, for those who knew how to use them.  And from the hungry look of anticipation she witnessed on face after face, she reasoned that this fair was a welcome
release from the scourge of the Censorate. 

There were some actual displays of magic at the fair, as different merchants demonstrated the efficacy of their wares.  One vendor bearing master Banamor’s device on his baldric was selling twigs that lit up at the end with a tiny magelight at a word.  Another was selling stones that radiated heat all winter long.  Another was showing off a smooth stick’s ability to shoot gouts of flame into the air.  Dara had to hood Frightful
at that display.  She could soar thousands of feet in the air, viciously dismember prey her own size, and even attack a grown man in the heat of battle . . . but no animal appreciated the sudden appearance of a column of fire.

Dara saw a few folk she knew from the castle and some others she’s met during the siege, but most of the Sevendori were hugging the edge of the fairgrounds and just watching the spectacle.

“That’s a lot of wizards,” a familiar voice mused tiredly, from behind her.  Gareth, wearing a wide straw hat to keep the sun out of his eyes, was leaning on a staff, a weary look on his face.  “Over four hundred, give or take, by the Spellwarden’s rolls.  But they seem to be having a good time,” he noted with an air of satisfaction.  Dara knew he had been working night and day, since the siege, to help Master Banamor organize the event.  He looked much older, for some reason.

“You did an excellent job,” she smiled.  “I’ve never seen so many people in Sevendor . . . well, I suppose I have, but . . .”

“I know,” grinned Gareth.  “Completely mad, isn’t it? And this is just the beginning . . . this afternoon is the Spellmonger’s Trial, then a special feast for the champion tonight, and then tomorrow a special court.  That’s after we held the wedding of Lady Estret of Cargwenyn to Sir Cei of Bov—of Sevendor, yesterday. 
Sire
Cei, now,” he amended. 

Dara had learned during her brief time in the Magical Corps that the difference between “sir” and “sire,” when it came to knights, was land ownership.  The form of address “sire” denoted that a man was a landholding knight.  Sir Festaran, for example, was a knight by birth and training, but he would not become
Sire
Festaran unless he was given title to a domain of his own, someday.  Sir Cei, the castellan knight, became Sire Cei, landowning noble, with his wedding to the fair Lady Estret. 

Dara knew the story well: a young widow in the nearby Barony of Sendaria, she had petitioned her lord, Baron Arathanial, to find her a husband and her tiny domain a lord, after her husband died.  The Baron had offered the prize at last spring’s Chepstan Fair tournament.  Sir Cei had been so enraptured by the sight of the widow that he had soundly defeated every knight he faced, breaking lances on the jousting field until they lay around like kindling . . . or at least that was the tale that was told.

The wedding had been the consummation of that victory, and cemented ties between Sevendor and Sendaria.  Dara had come to understand politics enough lately to realize why that was important.  Sevendor needed allies, she knew, and the Baron of Sendaria was a powerful one.  He was here, she knew, specifically for the wedding.  Her Hall had been in a tizzy all week – she had narrowly escaped getting caught up in the preparations – as her brother presented the castellan with a wedding gift of a bearskin cloak – the bear he had hunted last winter, and then cured the fur himself.  He had been proud to present the important man with it.  Dara thought he was crazy to give up such a noble item, but Kyre insisted that Sire Cei was worthy of such a gift.

The ceremony had been glorious, and the feast had been magnificent, she had heard.  She had been invited, but after the excitement of the last several months she had decided against it.  It was a bit overwhelming, and she didn’t quite feel adult enough to contend with dancing, flirting, and meeting important people whose names she wouldn’t remember. She adored Sire Cei, after his daring rescue on the trail to Caolan’s Pass, and she admired what she’d heard of Lady Estret . . . but she just didn’t feel up to it.

As enchanting a story as that was, however, Dara’s attention was focused on something more dear to her curious nature.

“But what about the Spellmonger’s Trial?” Dara asked, as much to keep Gareth from asking why she hadn’t attended as any other reason.

“Well,” Gareth said, conspiratorially, after looking around to make sure he wasn’t overheard, “all I can tell you is that it involves Matten’s Helm,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder at the big hill you could see from just about everywhere in Sevendor.  “You may have heard, there was a bit of commotion there, the other night—”

“Commotion?  Another attack?” Dara asked, alarmed.  Frightful flapped her wings, picking up on her trainer’s emotions.

“Not that kind of commotion,” Gareth continued, slyly.  “There was a delegation from the Tree Folk.  The Alka Alon, masters of magic and song.  They apparently want to live here.”

“What?!” Dara asked, shocked.  If the Tal Alon were buffoonish characters from fable, the Alka Alon were mysterious figures out of legend.  The Tree Folk, as they were commonly called, were creatures of myth, magical beings who lived deep in forests or caverns or mystical palaces, or something . . . not new neighbors.

“It will be kind of like an embassy,” he continued, calmly.  “They want to study snowstone and be close at hand to the Spellmonger.  But that’s not the best part,” he said, with a certain amount of relish.

“What’s the best part?” Dara asked.

“They’ve adopted human forms,” he confided.  “I saw them.  And they are
beautiful!
”

Dara rolled her eyes.  The greatest magicians in the world had stepped out of legend and wanted to move to Sevendor, and Gareth was most impressed by how comely they looked.

“The Spellmonger’s Trial?” she reminded him.

“Eh?  Oh!  Because of that, Matten’s Helm will be off-limits.  Master Minalan essentially gave it to the Alka Alon.  But before they take possession, it’s going to be used in the Trial.”

“How?”

“I can’t say,” Gareth said, his eyes twinkling.

“Gareth!” Dara exclaimed, irritated.

“I can’t, I swore an oath!” he protested.  “Do you know how many cutthroat warmagi are in town right now?  Any one of them would torture me to death for what I knew,” he assured her. 

“I can see the appeal of that idea,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

“See?” he pointed out, alarmed.  “When irionite is the prize, even friends can turn on each other!  The Spellmonger will be sharing the details at the start of the Trial.  If you want to know more, you have to go register.”

“Register?  For what?” Dara asked.

“To compete,” Gareth said, meaningfully.  “Dara, this contest is open to all with Talent.  Even you.”

“I’m going to compete against a bunch of real wizards?” she scoffed. 

“No one knows what challenges the Trial holds,” he said, cryptically.  “Master Minalan is encouraging everyone to participate.  He wouldn’t do that if there wasn’t a chance you could win.  And considering how low the entry fee is . . .”  Gareth looked a little uncomfortable.  “I, uh, could loan you the money, if you need to.  I get paid pretty well . . .”

“I have my own coin, thank you very much!” Dara said, bridling at the offer. Gareth looked taken aback, and she realized she may have been more forceful than she intended.  “I got some money from Master Banamor, from helping out with the siege.  And I make some from pelts we sell at market,” she said, nodding toward her bird. 

“Then you should really consider competing,” Gareth said, tight lipped.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, there are about a thousand things that I need to be doing.  See you at the Trials,” he said, and wandered off.

Dara debated with herself mightily as she continued wandering through the fairgrounds.  Entering the contest seemed a waste of good money – she had little hope of winning.  Or even competing properly against real magi.  But as she looked at the mysterious, intriguing wares for sale, she also realized that there wasn’t anything else she could really spend her money on, here.  She had no idea what any of the stuff did, or why it was important, or why she should buy it.

She found herself near the booth where magi were continuing to register for the Trial.  A barker out front spoke in a loud, clear tone of the contest, repeating the magnificent prize for the champion, over and over: a witchstone, a shard of irionite, stone of magic and mystery, a prize above all others . . . Dara listened to the man’s market pitch three times while she watched magi of all descriptions come forward, pay their fee, and add their names to the list.

Dara was next in line without even realizing that she had gotten in line.

“Name?” the officious little clerk asked, looking up from his roll of parchment.

“Lenodara of Westwood,” she answered promptly.  She knew her name.  That was the easy part.

“Discipline?” the clerk continued.

“I beg your pardon?” Dara asked, confused.

“What kind of magic do you practice?” the man asked, patiently.  “Spellmonger, Resident Adept in general practice, footwizard, hedgewitch, arcane academic, enchanter, thaumaturge, warmage, that sort of thing,” he explained.

“Oh,” Dara answered.  She supposed she knew this one, too.  “Beastmaster.”

“Really?” the clerk asked, his eyebrows rising.  “How intriguing.  Class?”

“Huh?”

“How far advanced in your field of pursuit?” he asked, smoothly.

“I, uh, just figured it out this last spring,” she admitted.

“Uh,
novice
,” he decided, making a note.  “Good of you to participate.  It should be an educational experience, if nothing else.  We’re hoping for few fatalities, at least.  The Spellmonger wants a good, clean, fair contest.”

“And there really is a witchstone for the winner?” she asked.  She had no idea what she would do with one, but for some reason Dara felt she wanted that stone more than she’d wanted anything except Frightful.

“There really is,” he assured her.  “I’ve seen it with my own eyes.  For the victor,” he reminded her, “whomever that is.  You have your fee, young lady?”

Dara pushed her coins at the man, and he returned her the change.  She had no idea how much was appropriate, and she had to trust him, but to cheat her would violate the fair’s oath.  She stumbled out of line in a daze, only partially realizing what she had done.  She had entered a contest, with real magi.

“I’ll never win,” Dara told Frightful, after she purchased a tiny meat pie from a vendor and found a spot on the commons.  It was a pretty day, and even if she was doomed to lose her money, it was exciting just to be included, she decided.  She watched the other contestants prepare themselves as the time for the Trial grew closer.

If Dara wasn’t intimidated by her competition before, she was now.  Warmagi appeared in full armor, whirling their swords – “mageblades,” Gareth had told her when she’d asked about the distinctive blades, part weapon and part magic wand – and doing strange exercises.  Remeran magi in flowing robes were chanting and burning incense.  Ragged-looking footwizards were muttering over their staves, and keen-eyed young student wizards leafed through their books searching for helpful spells.

Finally, the bell tolled, summoning the contestants to the tent in the middle of the fair, and Dara followed everyone else over to hear the instruction.

The Magelord looked quite lordly, Dara decided from her vantage at the back of the crowd.  He had trimmed his whiskers and hair, and his garments were rich and colorful.  He looked older, she noted, than the first time she’d seen him.  She supposed she might look older, too, with a new baby, a troubled domain, and a war.  Still, he smiled a lot and seemed quite enthusiastic about his Trial.  He explained who could compete, why he was doing it, and a lot of other stuff, only half of which Dara heard.

Then came the important part: where Magelord Minalan revealed the nature of the Trial.

“A few nights ago I chanced to stroll across the peak of Matten’s Helm,” he said, gesturing to the tall, steep hill in the distance.  “I was enjoying the evening, and smoking a pipe with my new Alka friends,” he said, casually, as if he supped with legends and gods daily. “I suppose in my reverie I laid my pipe down on a stone and forgot about it.  I would dearly love to have it back, but . . . it is such a long way from here.  I have scryed the site, and am sure it is still there . . . but it may be guarded,” he said, mischievously.  “Your trial is simple.  The mage who lays my pipe in my hands first will win the stone.”