Hawkmaiden (16 page)

The Westwood was not the only estate to receive a gift of arms – in fact,
every
estate received some spears or other weapons.  The implications of the gifts were clear.  Yet the recipients seemed to accept the harbingers of death and violence gratefully.  Dara desperately wanted to ask Uncle Keram about it, but knew now was not the time.

There was drama at the court, too.  Yeoman Ylvine protested the changes the Spellmonger’s folk had brought to the vale, and the Magelord stripped him of his title and sent him packing.  That shocked everyone, but the strong words and resolute action did paint the new lord as one who expected –
demanded
– loyalty.  A Wilderlands man – Bovali, Dara reminded herself – was appointed to run the estate temporarily, and that caused much grumbling among the Genly and Brestal folk.

Lastly, the representatives of the Bovali refugees who had just arrived in Sevendor spoke, and Dara got a much better picture of the plight of those
poor people.  The tale of their battles, their desperate siege way in the Minden mountains in the west, and their daring, magical escape made a powerful tale.  It also made Dara look at the scruffy-looking bunch of travelers with new respect.  While there were a few Wilderlands knights among them, they suddenly looked far tougher and resolute than the Sevendori peasants they were mingling among. 

Most of all, they looked devoted to their new lord.  More than devoted, Dara observed, they looked nearly fanatical.  And there were a lot of them – and more on the way, if she believed the rumors she overheard. 

No wonder the Genlymen and other peasants of the Vale were unhappy – it was clear now that any restless rebellion, any move on the part of the Sevendori villeins would not be dealt with by guile, posturing, and empty promises, as Sir Erantal had done.  It would be met with steel and fire, Dara realized. 

The spears the Magelord had distributed, the number of Bovali folk who seemed to be armed – with
swords
, even, though they were forbidden to commoners by the Duke’s Law – all of it presaged a virtual invasion of the quiet little valley.  An invasion that would stand for no dissent.

Which side would the Westwoodmen come down on, she wondered, if it came to blows?  Would they stand with this foreign wizard, or with the folk of the Vale who had lived beside them for generations?

As the Westwoodmen walked back through a light snowfall, late in the night, Dara finally had a chance to put that exact question to her Uncle Keram. 

“We shall do whatever the Master of the Wood tells us to, by the Flame,” her uncle said, solemnly.  “But your brother swore an oath of fealty to this new lord on his behalf, and that oath is as binding as if done before the Flame.  If he calls upon us to do our lawful duty and take up arms on his behalf, I cannot foresee why the Master would not respond.”

“Do you think the Genlymen will cause trouble?”

Keram considered.  “They would be fools to.  What did you see tonight, Little Bird?”

“The Vale folk angry at their new lord, and fearful of the Bovali.”

“That is one perspective,” he agreed.  “But I also saw a young, vibrant lord aggressively taking charge of his domain, ordering his estates, and bringing change to those who fear it most of all.  Railan the Steady, Ylvine, Farant, they all benefitted from Sir Erantal’s rule, one way or another, and now they do not know how to contend with their world changing so quickly. 

“Yet not only did the Magelord not announce new taxes, as most newly-seated lords would, but he forgave the debts of the villeins.  More, he has been including them in the prosperity he seeks to bring to all in the Vale.  Yet they cannot see beyond their own losses to see how all around them are profiting.  So yes, Dara, I do expect them to cause trouble, before long.  And if they do, then the Westwood will fulfill its oath to the rightful lord of Sevendor.”

Dara considered that in silence the rest of the way back to the Hall.  It troubled her to think of war and violence, and it made her fearful for her kin who would be involved.  But she also had to admit that Sevendor Castle had seemed a symbol of hope and stability, for all of the changes the Magelord had wrought, not a symbol of oppression and despair.  The Bovali were kind-hearted and friendly, for all their strange ways, and they seemed eager to work, not to fight.

As they came to the first bend in the road into the forest, at the top of a rise, Dara looked back out over the valley, across the stream toward Sevendor Village and its broad commons, where hundreds of tents and shelters were being erected in the snow by torches and magelights. 

For the first time in her life, Dara felt really hopeful about her future.  Instead of living in dread of the world outside of the Westwood, she suddenly felt a sense of anticipation. 

It almost made up for the exhaustive report of what everyone was wearing that she would have to deliver to her sister.

Chapter Eight

The Blizzard

In the days that followed the magnificent Yule celebration at the castle Dara immersed herself in training Frightful, under her Uncle’s supervision.  There wasn’t much work she could do in the cold, outside, so she worked in her room or in the expanse of the hall.  The little bird had more than doubled in size since she’d captured her, and required nearly-constant attention.  The weather outside had turned to blustery cold, making hacking Frightful in the meadow problematic, so Dara contented herself with perfecting her calls and encouraging the falcon
to fly from block to her gauntleted fist when she gave one.

“She’s coming along nicely,” her Uncle Keram noted with approval one night, after he had come in from the tanning sheds and watched her at work.  “Her feathers are beautiful and well-tended.  She’s very alert.  Just be wary of overfeeding her,” he cautioned.  “It’s natural to want to encourage her to bond with you, but making her complacent will spoil her for hunting.  Hunger is the falconer’s friend,” he reminded.

“I’m paying attention to it,” Dara promised.  “Unless we’re training, she doesn’t get anything until she’s nearly ravenous, just like you said. 

“Keep this up and we can take her for her first real flight this spring, as soon as the weather clears,” he nodded as Frightful flew across the Hall to Dara’s gauntleted fist again.  “One without the lead.”

Dara froze at the thought.  “Don’t some birds fly off, without a lead?”

“They do,” he agreed.  “That first flight can be disaster, if a falconer hasn’t prepared her bird well enough.  But I don’t see the kind of skittishness or strong-headedness in Frightful that I recall in birds who did that.  It’s more of a danger in hawks, particularly the social species, than in the falcons.  But I don’t think you have to worry.  I think you’re doing well,” he praised her.

Dara was thankful for the praise – without it, she felt as if she was the most useless person in the Hall.  Standing there calling to a bird over and over again in the Great Hall while others hurried to their tasks and chores made her feel like she was shirking.  But, as her annoying brother Kobb (of
all
people) pointed out, her position as daughter of the Master afforded her the time.  As much as she hated to trade on that, she also knew if she let up on her training regimen with Frightful her falcon would not be properly trained.

At last, the day before Briga’s Day, the weather broke enough for Uncle Keram and her father (who had been released from his wooden cast just the day before) to escort her out to the small meadow for Frightful’s first flight.

The falcon had been hacked out in the meadow often enough, tied to a board by her jesses.  It was familiar territory, from the spruces and hickories that surrounded it to the nests of wild birds in the trees and grasses.  This was the outdoor space Frightful knew best as “home,”
and Dara hoped by the Flame that it would be alluring enough to encourage the falcon to return to it.

“Let’s start off with a few practice flights, on the line,” Uncle Keram suggested.  Dara dutifully tied the long waxed cord – the same cord she had used to ascend the mountain – to Frightful’s jesses before moving away from her, the tiny silver bells on her legs jingling merrily in the cold. 

Dara gave the call sign, and held out her fist.  Frightful took a moment to recognize it, but the bird flapped and made it across the twenty feet of distance, trailing the string behind her.

“Again,” encouraged Keram.  “A few more times.  Let her get used to her wings.”

Dara complied, as her father watched proudly, and each time Frightful took to wing at the summons.  Dara moved farther and farther away from Frightful’s block, until she was nearly forty feet from the falcon.  It was as far as she flew indoors, in the hall.  Still, the bird flew unerringly to her fist.

“All right,” Keram sighed, nervously.  “Let’s take the lead off and see if she notices.”

Dara nodded, and quickly untied the string while Frightful was hooded.  She moved a mere twenty feet away and pursed her lips to call.

Unhindered and unbound, the beautiful bird flew directly to her glove.

“
She did it!
” Dara said, excitedly, as she offered the bird a treat.  Frightful took it daintily.

“Let’s see if she’ll fly the length of the meadow,” Keram said, taking the bird from her hand.  Dara nodded excitedly and ran to the other end of the grassy lawn.  She held her fist high, where Frightful could see it, and pursed her lips for the call.  Keram unhooded the falcon and flung it into the air.  That startled the bird, but in seconds she was flying gracefully on the wind.

Dara pursed her lips and called frantically.  Frightful started to veer out of the proper direction for her flight, but another call caused her to correct herself.  In moments her horny talons bit into the padded knuckles of the gauntlet.

“Well done!” her father boomed, smiling broadly as he leaned on his staff.  “As pretty as any wild hawk!”

“Falcon,” Dara and her uncle corrected him, simultaneously.

That made Kamen laugh.  “
Falcon
, then.  You’ve done a good job, Little Bird!”

“You have,” agreed Keram.  “She’s healthy, happy, and ready to hunt.  As soon as the weather gets warm, we can start
real
fieldwork.  Until then we’ll have to make her a better lure to start practicing with.”

“A better lure?” Dara asked.

“A bit of leather with some feathers and such attached,” explained her uncle as he gathered up the falconry gear into the basket Dara had started carrying it in.  “I’ll show you how to make one.  Something that resembles prey enough so she can practice with it.  Play with it,” he corrected. 

“Falcons . . .
play?
” asked her father, amused.

“Not the way a cat or dog would,” admitted Keram, “but they do sport with their prey a bit.  A lure is essential to help her develop a feel for hunting.  And next time we can try a longer flight – a true flight, beyond the meadow.”

Dara was even more hesitant about that.  Once Frightful was beyond her line of sight, only the tinkle of her tiny bells gave Dara any sense of her presence.  She couldn’t even imagine what she would feel like if the falcon flew away and never came back.

“That’s enough for today, anyway,” she sighed, postponing the anxiety that came with the anticipation as she glanced at the cloudy gray sky through her steamy breath.  “It looks like snow.”

*                            *                            *

Sevendor did not get much snow. 

Dara could recall only seeing snow twice, and only once had it accumulated to any depth.  When it did come in any quantity, Keram explained as they hurried back from the meadow, most of the estate’s business shut down.  The way he kept looking nervously at the approaching clouds told Dara he was worried about it.

Within the hour flakes started to fall across the vale.  Dara delighted in the beautiful, full flakes that dropped gracefully over the wood and hall.  They looked absolutely lazy, she decided, and the patterns were beautiful, even if they made her dizzy.  Frightful was less impressed with the snow, and kept fluffing her feathers indignantly by the time they had reached the yard. 

By nightfall over an inch had gathered, blanketing every surface in sight in a pristine layer of snow.  It transformed the manor, making the normally-dirty brown and gray exterior bright and festive.  The children of the Hall played in the yard in the novelty until the winds picked up and drove them inside to the warmth of the Flame.  There was a note of anxiety and excitement surrounding  the snow.  How long would it last?  How deep would it be?  Would regular chores get canceled? Would they be stuck in the hall for days?  Weeks?  Would they run out of wood and freeze? Would they all starve?  Would they have to resort to eating the dogs and cats?  To
cannibalism?
 

The children’s fantasies got richer and more complex as they imagined more and more dire consequences due to the snow. 
Had she really been like that?
she asked herself as she overheard their enthusiastic predictions of doom.

As excited as Dara was to tell the tale of Frightful’s first unencumbered flight at dinner that night, her news was once-again overshadowed by the lord of the domain.  Not even the unexpected snowfall was more important important than the news from Sevendor Village.  Dinner that night was filled with conversation about a scuffle Magelord Minalan had with one of the neighboring domains.

Dara couldn’t help it – as eager as she was to share in front of the Flame her success with her bird, she was just as eager to hear her cousin Keru’s account (which he got from a Gurisham girl who was sweet on one of the Magelord’s apprentices) of an actual lordly
duel.

It seemed that the displaced titular lord of the stolen estate of Brestal had been upset with the Magelord re-conquering his illegally-taken lands, and had sought out the mage to settle the matter with a formal duel.  Sir Gimbal’s son was young, and had just been knighted by his father a few months before.  As a knight, he had felt honor-bound to fight for the lands his father had stolen for him.

He had appeared at the far pass with an entourage of unlikely knights – newly-made members of the chivalry, their squirehood barely behind them – and demanded satisfaction from Lord Minalan for his loss. 

The Magelord had given him satisfaction . . . by defeating him soundly and insisting on a ransom, before giving the young lordling his parole. 

“Sir Ganulan was the instigator, ‘tis said,” Keru reported in front of the Flame with a grin, “a vassal of his father, Sire Gimbal, the Lord of West Fleria.”  West Fleria was Sevendor’s neighbor to the north, a far richer country, agriculturally speaking, than the mountain vale.  But what prosperity the people were able to pull from the land was quickly taken up by the Warbird: the Lord of West Fleria and half a score other domains.  Sire Gimbal of West Fleria was a legendary figure to the peasantry of the lands around Sevendor.  And it was to his son that the tiny Brestal estate had been carved off of Sevendor and included in his holdings.  After the duel, there could be no doubt about its ownership.  Now the lad had not just lost his estate, he had lost his dignity and a fair-sized ransom, from what Keru said. 

While the younger men seemed enthusiastic about the drubbing their new lord had delivered to a hated foe, Dara noticed her uncles and her father exchange concerned looks.  Such insults between lords often led to violence that affected the common folk, she knew.  She, herself, was thrilled to hear of the Magelord’s victory, but she also was starting to appreciate what that pride might end up costing her.

“It really is coming down, out there!” one of her older female cousins called from the window as she peered out of the shutters at the yard.  “The whole courtyard is covered, now!”  The talk grew lively until Aunt Anira asserted her authority, glancing at the Flame as she sent them back to their tables.  There was a delighted murmur in the Hall, as another great log was placed upon the Flame.  Calls went up for the Story of the Flame, as tradition demanded, and all eyes looked toward her father, who sighed and lurched to his feet. 

“It is a snowfall,” he began in a loud tone of voice that cut across everyone else’s.  The hall immediately quieted down.  No one wanted to disrespect the Master of the Wood in front of the Flame.  “When the snow covers the ground, then the time comes to retreat to the comfort of the Flame, eat, drink, and tell stories in its light as the wood is enshrouded.  And the first story, by tradition, is spoken by the Master of the Wood, and tells of how our folk came to the Westwood, so many generations ago that the count is long lost.

“It is said,” her father said, clearing his throat with the help of a mug of ale as the folk of the Hall settled down to listen, “that our forebears were once a people of great learning who lived in a mountain vale far to the south and east of here.  They had knowledge of a secret fire and were charged with protecting and harvesting the fire from the barren land they lived in, for the benefit of many.  Why they did this is lost to us, but they were a wise and brave people and for generations they tended their mountain shrine.

“But the day came when they were driven from their home.  Their wisdom was valued by evil men, and instead of turning the secret fire to their service they vowed to seal their shrines, bank the secret fire, and take their secrets to a far-away place where they could find refuge and a new life away from the evil men.”

He looked around at the faces rapt in attention.  Her father did not often tell stories, and usually only at ceremonial occasions, but there were many stories and laws only the Master of the Wood could tell.  This one had not been heard in several years.  There was no predicting when it might be heard again, so the attention of the hall was focused tightly on her father.

“Their leader was Karl, and his woman was Lissa, and together they led our folk north away from danger.  They vowed to live as simple folk of the wood, hidden away in some protected land, and so for months they journeyed seeking a place remote enough to become a refuge.  Ever the evil men pursued them.  Every they hid themselves and concealed their retreats.  When they were forced to, they fought.  They would rather have died than given the knowledge of the secret fire to those unworthy.