Hawkmaiden (21 page)

Guiltily she realized after spending a week exploring Sevendor from the air that she had woefully neglected Frightful’s practical hunting exercises.  She focused back on training for a week, but it seemed pointless, now.  It was almost effortless to slip into the bird’s mind and direct her to seek, to hunt, and to return with her kill now. 

There were other side-effects of the secret practice.  Dara noted with a bit of alarm, one morning, when she woke up completely ravenous that she herself was not particularly hungry . . . but the bird at the foot of her bed was starving and making a ruckus in her head.  The two beady black eyes looked at her accusingly, a new wave of hunger rolling across her mind like a thunderstorm until Dara got up and gave the bird a morsel to keep her quiet.  Only after she fully regained wakefulness – and Frightful was gleefully devouring the bit of chicken - did the gnawing feeling inside her subside.

It was an odd feeling, fielding emotions that did not originate in her own mind, but once she got used to discriminating which feelings were hers and which were her falcon’s, Dara found it a useful method of communication.  She tested the limits of that control as often as she could.  One morning she flew Frightful in a full hunt in the meadow, scoring two small brown rabbits, without once using a call or signal.  She just directed the bird with her mind and let her do the rest.

Dara got used to the pressure she felt with the connection, too.  But  as Gareth said, maintaining the bond became easier and easier with practice.

When her Uncle Keram finally asked to inspect her hunt to check on her progress, he was amazed at how tame, docile, and obedient Frightful was for Dara – one more good reason not to mention her Talent.  She hunted the falcon until she brought back a fat dove for his inspection.

“Well done!” he boomed, proudly, as the dead bird was dropped at their feet.  “You really have a knack for this, Little Bird!”

“We’ve been working really hard, for weeks,” she assured him.  “I think we’re about ready to go after a full-sized hare, now.  She’s almost big enough to bring one down!”

“I think so, too,” Keram agreed, as he inspected the falcon.  “You’ve taken remarkably good care of her, for lacking a proper mews.  She’s as healthy as any falcon I’ve seen.”

“She’s beautiful,” Dara nodded, smiling benevolently at her falcon as she slipped the hood back over her eyes.  “And getting more clever by the day.”

“I was wondering if you’d like to take her to the village when I go next market day.  You’re old enough to tend the booth and earn a few pennies, and I think you’d like to show off that pretty bird.”

Dara’s mouth gaped.  Outside of festivals, market days were about the most exciting thing a child of the Westwoods could attend.  Dara had been six times and each trip had been an adventure.  The prospect of going with her falcon on her arm was just too good to pass up.

By right and tradition, Westwood Hall maintained a regular booth at the market to sell the estate’s surplus.  Each of the young folk of the Westwood got an opportunity to man
the booth, and get paid a few pennies for their service, while their elders shopped from the other stalls or discussed business with the vale folk.  It was a rite of passage, one reserved for those who were ready to begin bearing the responsibilities of adulthood. 

A category to which Dara realized, to her shock, she apparently qualified.  She gravely thanked her uncle and then excitedly went to prepare.

Market day dawned warm and clear, and Dara was up with the sun and ready to depart with the rest of the sleepy-eyed group when it was light enough to walk across the bridge without falling into the chasm.  Three great wheelbarrows were taken laden with wares: nuts, herbs, some early berries, leatherwork, some smoked venison and ham, and a thick stack of freshly-cured buckskins.   When they returned, the carts would contain the things the estate needed that it couldn’t produce: cheese, barley, oats, wheat, and maize, perhaps cloth. 

Dara was impressed and excited by seeing the changes to Sevendor Village since the last time she’d been, in person.  Seeing it from the air had been one thing, but she noticed things on the ground that had completely escaped Frightful’s attention. 

Once a small collection of round huts clustered around the headman’s longhouse, the village had been transformed – as if by magic – by the Magelord and his Bovali immigrants.  There was nary a roundhouse left.  They had been replaced by sturdy timber longhouses, some with stone foundations – turned white, where they had been affected by the Snow That Never Melted – and thatched with reeds.  A few larger structures had been built, great timber buildings that were growing roofs of baked tile.  The old yeoman’s house, where Railan the Steady had dominated the village since living memory, had been entirely knocked down.  It was now the site of a proper manor hall under construction.  Another large building was growing across the street – and it
was
a proper street, paved for a hundred feet along its length with gleaming white cobbles.  It even had a gutter down the center that drained it into Ketta’s Stream.  Smaller buildings were being built around them, just as sturdy and expensive.  Shops, Dara realized.  Like permanent market stalls, where artisans lived and worked and sold their wares.  A blacksmith, a carpenter, and other skilled laborers were already in residence.

As many houses and shops as were being built, the village Commons was still covered in tents, lean-tos, and make-shift shelters.  Over a thousand Bovali were still living in temporary quarters, she learned as they walked to the market.  Dara couldn’t see how they could build that many houses in Sevendor Village, but she also learned what was to become of the new arrivals.  Most would be moved farther away, to the entrance of the vale, where a new village was being built on the site of the one the Warbird had burned when she was a baby.

Dara didn’t know how she felt about that.  How could you just
create
a new village?  Villages were something that just
were
, not something you built. 

Then she decided that was silly – a child’s understanding of such things.  Villages were just collections of houses, after all.  Houses could be built.  People could move into them.  That’s all a village was, she reasoned.  The idea of another village in Sevendor Vale was strange, but no less strange than magelights or the other changes the Magelord had contrived.

The sheer number of people packed into the market now was daunting, she felt, as they reached the plaza of hard-packed dirt (now a dirty white).  Her fuzzy memories of her previous trips recalled a lively crowd, but not one nearly as large or as densely-packed.  Even in the early morning hours, as the other merchants set up their stalls, there were more people in the market than Dara remembered being there at midday.

As the Westwoodmen busied themselves with preparing their own wares for the day, Dara had to calm Frightful, who was easily spooked by the noise.  Dara eventually had to hood the bird and tie her to her block to keep her from threatening passers-by.  There were a lot of admirers, too.  Before the old bronze bell rang to signal the start of trading, dozens of folk had come by the booth to gaze upon Frightful’s regal bearing and beautiful plumage.

Dara took a lot of pride in that admiration, particularly when she was asked who had captured and trained her.  Dara ended up telling the story a dozen times that day to all sorts of people, many who were skeptical of her truthfulness.  Her Uncle Keram came to her defense each time, insisting that Dara alone had been clever and strong and brave enough to make it to the peak, and then back down again with her bird safely in hand.

It wasn’t just Dara’s pride he was feeding, though, she realized.  Frightful’s attractive feathers and the tale of her capture and training lured people to the Westwood booth all day, and business was good as a result.

Dara didn’t mind helping out the Hall, of course – that was ever Westwoodman’s duty – but she was just as glad to be given leave to wander the grounds midmorning to stretch her legs.  Her uncle even gave her a few pennies to spend, his generosity fueled by the boost her bird had given sales.  Dara took the tiny coins and eagerly began looking at what wares were available.

She stopped at a few booths to see what they’d brought and was disappointed.  Most of the items were common household goods or foodstuffs.  The Bovali were hungrily buying up much of what was available, and there were few luxuries available that she desired.  Dara soon found herself more entertained by just listening to the conversations of the people at market than shopping.

She soon learned far more about the goings-on in the world beyond the Westwood than she had in the last year.  To her surprise she discovered the dour Wilderlands castellan of the Magelord, Sir Cei, had triumphed at the Chepstan Fair tournament, winning not only a domain of his own but the hand of a fair young widow.  The champion had declared he would not give up his current post, and his bride would come live in Sevendor Castle with him after they were wed.

More exciting than even that was the news that the Magelord himself had been attacked by some wicked magi, (the Censorate, she overheard) at the Fair, and had to get no less than Baron Arathaniel to intervene.  That was terribly scandalous, she knew –
no one
fought at a fair.  That was like lying in front of the Flame.  Even Dara knew that and she hadn’t even been to one.

But the more ominous news concerned the ongoing feud their lord had been suffering with the Warbird – the lord of West Fleria, Sire Gimbal.  Bad old Sir Erantal had been a friend of his, she knew, and she secretly worried the corrupt knight would somehow use his powerful friend to strike back at her home.  The Warbird had been a name of quiet dread in her ears for her entire life, as tales of the brutal knight’s conquests of his neighbors had become local history.  Brestal, the easternmost estate in Sevendor, had been conquered by the Warbird’s men before it had been recovered by the Spellmonger.

Dara found it interesting how the opinions she overheard diverged, depending upon who held them.  The native Sevendori (who were now a minority at market, she noted, amused, even if you added the Westwoodmen into the sum) were fearful and cautious about the idea of the fearsome Warbird setting his eyes on Sevendor.  They saw the Magelord’s defiance against him as a reckless taunt against a powerful foe, and they muttered that no good would come of it.

The immigrant Bovali, on the other hand, seemed to encourage their lord’s feud.  The strangely-dressed, odd-accented mountain people were convinced of the Magelord’s righteousness and his ability to defend the domain, should it come to blows.  Indeed, they seemed to welcome the chance to go to war against the Warbird, and made no end of jest about it.

The Riverlands folk who had come to Sevendor recently seemed somewhere in the middle.  The carpenters and smiths, merchants and artisans who had been attracted to the Magelord’s coin had little opinion of the Warbird, specifically, nor of the Magelord.  They just wanted to keep making profit and avoid war that would disrupt it – perhaps the most commonsense perspective, in Dara’s opinion.

She was trying to casually listen in on a heated conversation between two Genlymen and a Bovali settler when she felt someone come up behind her.

“Oh, it is
you
,” a familiar voice said.  “I didn’t think there could be two redheads your size in the valley.”

Dara whirled at the unexpected interruption and saw it was the mage Gareth.  He was wearing a pointed cap, his short but gawky body leaning on a plain wooden staff, his mantle flung back.  His grin was wide and his eyes were smiling.  She started to relax and then got tense again –
why would he want to talk to her?
  She wasn’t even fainting!

“Gareth!” she said.  “What are you . . . ?”

Me? Master Banamor is overseeing a lot of the market, now, and he hired me to help.  He even has a booth of his own, selling magic supplies.  Here, come with me and I’ll show you.”

“
Magic
supplies?” she asked, confused and intrigued.  She had no idea what that might be.

“Oh, just some basics, for now: parchment, ink, a few herbs, some stones. He’s even created a few trinkets to help spur sales.  Not many buyers and not much inventory, yet, but there’s more of both on the way.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, confused. 

“The Magelord has decreed that Sevendor is to host the first-ever magic fair this autumn,” he explained, as he walked her to his booth.  “He decided it would help encourage magic, now that the Bans are lifted, if the various footwizards and enchanters and such had a place to come and exchange important wares and news and the like.  And encourage trade in general.  He’s already made some promising local discoveries, that could enrich a few folk.  There’s really a market for that sort of thing, and he’d like to see Sevendor fill it.  Come autumn, this whole market and Commons will be filled with wizards from all over the Duchy.  And beyond,” he promised.

“That’s . . . it’s going to be
here?
”

“That’s his plan,” promised Gareth with a grin.  “I heard it from Tyndal himself – that’s the Magelord’s senior apprentice, Sir Tyndal,” he boasted.  “A knight mage.”

“The Magelord has apprentices?”

“Two,” Gareth said.  “He was a Spellmonger before he was a Magelord, and they were both apprenticed to him before his ennoblement.  And they distinguished themselves at the battles, last year, enough to be knighted by the Duke himself.  But between you and me,” he confided, “they’re both a little pigheaded.  Especially Tyndal.  Rondal’s all right – he’s supposed to drop by the booth today – but they’re restoring the old gate tower, now, by the dike—