Hawkmaiden (13 page)

“For what?”

“Exactly,” nodded her father.  “Without eyes inside that castle, we’ll never know what’s coming at the Westwood.”

Dara almost forgot about the excitement outside the wood, she was so intent on training her falcon.  She had gotten the pretty bird to fly the length of the hall, now, if the dogs were outside, and Dara had hacked her out in the meadow closest the hall every fair day she could.  She was starting to introduce the lure her uncle had fashioned for her, encouraging the falcon to pounce on it as if it were real prey.

It was slow, painstaking work that required constant repetition, and Dara did not naturally have the patience for it.  Several times she caught herself comparing her falcon to a mis-bred chicken, when she was obstinate, or suggest she might end up with a chicken’s usual destiny in a soup pot.

But Dara knew that this was not a commitment she could shy away from.  Frightful was utterly dependent upon her, now.  She couldn’t be released back into the wild at this point, not and survive the winter.  It was already terribly cold out, and had snowed twice.  Dara couldn’t imagine what life must be like for her nestmates. 

So Dara redoubled her efforts, working in the meadow with the falcon and the lure until her hands were cold and her fingers ached.

But the day that Frightful finally pounced on the lure as she dragged it across the cold, dry meadow she was jubilant.  She ran all the way back to the manor, the bird flapping its growing wings excitedly at the disturbance.  Dara burst into the Hall, looking around for her uncle so she could tell him.

But there was already a stir of excitement at Westwood Hall when she had arrived.  Kasten, the woodward in charge of the forest beyond the chasm, in the vale, had returned from his post with word from Lord Minalan: a goodly portion of that wood was to be cleared, to provide lumber for the new construction in the village and castle.

“The new castellan has ordered cured lumber from outside of the domain,” the man reported, shaking his head in disbelief.  “But he wants to fell twenty acres, at least, if not more.”  Kasten was clearly upset by the idea.  After all, as woodward, it was his duty to protect that forest.  All too often the villeins of Sevendor Village and Gurisham Hamlet would try to poach in the forest, or – worse yet – fell trees without leave.  It was Kasten’s job to police that wood.

But how could he protect the forest from the man who owned it?

“That’s the new forest,” Kamen reminded the man, soothingly.  “It was once croplands, when Sevendor was in its prime.  And it lies beyond the chasm.  He’s well within his right.”

“But that will leave but a shard of wood in the vale!” the man protested.

“Then that will make your job easier!” reproved Kamen.  “If our lord is importing more people, doubtless he will need the lumber, and it is his for the taking.  And he will need more land cleared for crops.  It will be a year before it will be dried and cured, anyway, and the sooner he gets it cut the sooner it will be ready.”

“But . . . but the magelord isn’t waiting,” protested Kasten.  “He was . . . he was drying, curing, and splitting the wood . . . by
magic
,” he finished in a whisper.  There was a low murmur in the room as everyone considered the implications.  Then, one by one, they turned and looked to the Master of the Wood for guidance.  Kamen was drumming his fingers on his wooden cast, looking thoughtful.

“Well, if he’s a magelord, then it stands to reason he’d have recourse to magic,” Kamen began, quietly.  “If he can use it to turn green wood into lumber . . . I’d say that’s a handy trick.”

“It’s unnatural!” Kasten protested.

“
Of course
it’s unnatural,” Dara found herself saying, before she could catch her lips, “its
magic
.  If it was natural, it would just be
work
.”  She expected someone to chide her for her impertinence, but to her surprise they all just nodded in agreement. 

Dara was shocked.  Had her dangerous trip up the mountain and her return with Frightful actually garner her a little respect in the eyes of the adults in her life?  She was mystified and gratified at the same time.

“Little Bird is right,” her uncle said, amused.  “Old Railan can’t stop cussing the man.  That tells me a lot.  He brings a lot of new change to the vale, and that’s going to upset a lot of people who grew used to the way things were done.  There are . . .
magic lights
up at the castle, now.  I’ve seen them myself.  And other things folk aren’t used to.”

“Lights and lumber are all very well and good,” Dara’s aunt said, bitingly, “but that still doesn’t answer what kind of lord he’ll be.”

“Then perhaps this will,” her uncle said, with a certain amount of satisfaction.  “When I was in the village I chanced to talk to the reeve from Gurisham.  Lord Minalan has decided to begin his lordship over Sevendor . . . by forgiving the debts owed to the castle by
every yeomanry
.”

“What?” her aunt gasped, her eyes wide.

“It’s the truth,” Kasten admitted.  “I heard it myself.  Every debt to the castle, wiped clean.  The castellan apparently pulled all of the pegs out of his board, and will start over from scratch.”

“That must be . . . that has to be . . .
hundreds
of ounces of silver!”

“It is,” Kasten agreed, grimly.  Why was he acting so taciturn at such good news? Dara wondered.  The debt each Yeomanry owed the castle was the leverage old Sir Erantal had used for years to get his way.  For the castle to just voluntarily erase that debt was magnificent news!  “But the magelord has spent at least that so far, purchasing supplies and labor.  He is, apparently, a rich man.”

“Apparently,” Kamen agreed.  “But rich enough to forgive such a large debt?”

“It is said he wants his lordship to be just, and prosperous for all,” her uncle reported.  “That’s what’s sticking in Railan’s craw.  He’s dominated Sevendor Village for years, protecting it and its villeins from Erantal’s drunken whims.  Now there’s no one to protect them from.  Instead, it’s Railan standing in their way, now.”

“Well, that’s news to hear,” chuckled Kamen.  “It sounds like I’m going to like this new lord.”

“Magelord,” corrected her uncle.

“Hmpf!” her aunt grunted.  “Let’s see what he does about Farant.  That’s when I’ll know what kind of man he is!”

Farant was the yeoman of Farant’s Hold, which Dara knew was somewhere at the base of Matten’s Helm.   It wasn’t a proper estate – the people looked half-starved and Farant’s stall at the market always featured the very poorest fare.  But Farant held power because he ran an illegal distillery, with the tacit permission of Sir Erantal, supplying the illicit needs of the peasants of Sevendor . . . and collecting what little spare coin they had in return.  He also supplied other illicit interests, as the dirty, tear-stained cheeks of the women of his holding could attest.  An ugly man could always come by a bride from Farant’s Hold . . . for the right price.

Dara’s aunt despised Farant on general principal, but bore a particular hatred of the slovenly man since last summer, when his idiot son – Korl, Dara thought he was called – had said something crude to her sister at market, and tried to kiss her unwillingly.

Her brother Kyre had been there and had laid Korl out in the dust with one blow of his fist.  The reeves got involved, but both boys were released when the situation had been explained.  Nothing really could be done to Korl – as long as Farant had Sir Erantal leashed by his illegal liquor.  He should have known better than to try anything with the daughter of the Master of the Wood, but by all accounts Korl was not particularly bright.  He didn’t need to be.  His father protected him.

But now that Erantal was gone, Dara realized that Farant had lost his patron.

If Aunt Anira doubted the virtue of Lord Minalan before, when news came a few days later that he had exiled and outlawed Farant and his sons, and had set up his own man to oversee Farant’s Hold, she could think of little bad to say about the man.  That stunned Dara.  She always thought her aunt could find fault with the sunrise, if she put her mind to it.

But the changes wrought by the arrival of the Magelord started to affect everyone.  The demand for labor in the village and the castle was so strong that young men felt compelled to beg off their duties in the Hall and work for the rare opportunity of good coin, instead.  Kamen had a hard time restricting the movement – most of the estate’s preparations for winter were complete, and the weeks before Yule were usually a time of quiet repose and work on indoor crafts, as the weather outside became cold.  The labor wasn’t needed here.

And the pay was certainly worth it.  Never had Westwood Hall seen silver flow in such abundance.  During market days their wares brought twice the usual price.  Of course the price of everything else had gone up at market, too, but the Westwood was mostly self-sufficient.  Apart from a little barley, oats, and ground flour, there was little the estate required on a regular basis. 

Dara paid attention to the stories and news attentively, even as she continued training Frightful.  Her falcon was growing quickly and her plumage was starting to come in beautifully.  Her dark head had started to produce the bright silver feathers her species was known by, and her wingspan was already more than two feet wide.

Dara bonded closely with the bird.  It was hard not to, with her on her fist or her shoulder nearly every waking moment.  But Frightful was getting properly manned.  She did not even startle when the many dogs of the Westwood suddenly barked, as she did when Dara had first returned from the nutwood.

The days got shorter and the nights got longer, and both got colder as winter progressed.  The day came when the news from the village involved the Westwood: the Spellmonger desired all of his Yeomen or their representatives to attend the castle’s Yule feast, in celebration of his lordship.  And to formally swear oaths of fealty to the new lord.  That sent the entire Hall into a tizzy.  Kamen’s leg was still on the mend, and getting him to the castle would be difficult and painful.  Just going to the nutwoods had taxed him.  In the end, he begged off, detailing another to go in his place.

But not his brother, Dara’s uncle.  He insisted that Kyre be the one who spoke for the Master of the Wood.

That was a significant development, Dara knew.  Kyre was only a few years older than she, but he was already a better woodsman than rangers twice his age.  He had the self-confidence and athletic ability that made him a natural leader, and he had been groomed for taking over the Wood when his father retired the post, hopefully many, many years from now.  While not technically a hereditary post, the customs of the Westwood made the Master’s son the expected heir of the position.

“He’s ready,” her uncle conceded, when the topic came up around the Flame.  “He’s a firebrand, but he’s got a cool head, too, when needed.”

“I want you to go, too,” Kamen insisted.  “You know more about our affairs than anyone, but I want Kyre to be under the magelord’s nose.  Take a few of our best lads,” he counselled.  “And take Dara, too.”

“Dara?” her uncle asked, curious and surprised.

“Me?”
Dara squeaked, unexpectedly.

“She’s very observant,” reasoned Kamen.  “She’s sneaky.  And she’s socially adept, no matter what her aunt tells her.  I trust her reporting more than most rangers, to be honest.  We need to know more about this lord.  And the new folk he’s expecting at Yule.”  That was news to Dara  - she’d always been under the impression that her candid observations were one of the things the adults of the Hall hated about her. 
Was her whole universe coming unraveled?

“Wilderlanders,” her uncle noted.  “Good folk, from what I’ve seen.  Free men.”

“Less inclined to look down their noses on us,” agreed Kamen.  “And soon they’ll outnumber the Vale folk, if I remember how to count properly.  But Dara’s eye will be able to spot what we need, while your lads are drinking the magelord dry.”

Dara was unsure how she felt about the trip.  On the one hand she was excited – she’d only been to the castle once in her life, though it lay less than a mile from the Hall.  That had been at a rare summer court, where she had been “presented” to Sir Erantal, as was custom, who hadn’t given her a second glance.  The castle had been a grand old pile of rocks, the same dark stone as the mountain she’d climbed, and even though it had supposedly been “cleaned” it was filthy and smelled of mold and mildew.

But now, with a new lord, she wondered what the place would be like.  Not just a new lord, a
mage
lord.

Dara’s hesitation to go evaporated when her sister discovered she wasn’t included in the party.  Any time she could make her sister jealous Dara reveled in it.  The resulting tantrum was impressive to behold, as her sister bounced back and forth between her Aunt Alina and her father to beg, whine, and wheedle her way to the feast.

Her aunt was intractable.  Her father dismissed her insistence with one volley:

“I will not have this entire Hall beat a boy near to death because you couldn’t contain your flirtations,” he pronounced.  “There is no predicting what will happen there, with all those Widerlanders arriving, and I know how you get around a bunch of young, strong boys.  Don’t deny it,” he warned.  “This is a business meeting, not a ball.  And there will be other feasts at the castle in your future, unless I miss my guess.”