Hawkmaiden (23 page)

Dara realized uncomfortably that she was now part of this debate.  And she was forced to speak not just on her behalf, but on behalf of her whole kin.  She had an obligation, by the Flame, to bring honor to the Hall.  She swallowed.  This was easily more terrifying than dangling off of the side of a mountain.

But her father and her uncle would want her to be just as brave.  She took a deep breath, chose her words carefully, and let her impudent lips loose upon the debate.

“We woodfolk can see the whole vale, from the heights,” she countered, evenly, the same way she would have faced off another child in an argument.  “The crops are growing in this ‘cursed’ ground, the people are fed and at honest labor, we serve a proud and just lord, and we have Brestal Vale back,” she counted off on her fingers. 

That made Railan blush.  From what she understood, he had had something to do with provoking the Warbird into conquering the estate in the first place.  But once going, with everyone’s attention upon her, Dara found she could not stop speaking.  “Seems to this child of the Westwood that the only one whose station has fallen since the Magelord arrived is Railan the Steady’s . . . and for some reason you want to convince us all that a kettle full of stew is a chamberpot!”

The metaphor struck the crowd as apt and funny, and the laughter that erupted on both sides made the big village elder’s broad face turn red.  Angrily he stalked toward Dara until he was mere feet away, standing with his hands on his hips.

“And when that Magelord brings the wrath of the Warbird down on us, and it is your kin going to war and your virtue as the prize, will you think so highly of full bellies and pretty clothes?  What will you think of the kettle, then?” he demanded with a snarl. 

He was trying to intimidate Dara with his size, his station, and his age.  But that just made her mad.

“I’ll think that the Westwoodmen haven’t forgotten their valor, and we’ll serve our rightful lord in the defense of our domain, as we have sworn by oath!  I would hope a Yeoman who swore that oath himself would remember that,” she added, ignoring his size, station, and age.  Railan was just a bully, she decided, and while she knew she was getting deeper and deeper into trouble with every word, she hated bullies of any stripe.  Kobb had given her that gift. 

That was the fatal blow to his argument, too.  There was a loud moan from the crowd – calling out both Railan’s valor and his oathkeeping would have instigated a duel, perhaps, if she were a grown man.  Coming from a child, it was a doubly sharp barb.  It also turned the tenor of the crowd, she realized.  No longer were Bovali and Sevendori segregating their opinions by class.  Dara’s words rang too true in the ears of all to be lightly dismissed.  Everyone could see that Railan’s ire was mere jealousy, now, and his empty threats of future retribution were mere fear-mongering. 

“Impudent girl,” he growled, as the crowd began to dissolve, its energies spent.  “It’s unwise to interfere in affairs you know nothing about!”

“I’m an ignorant girl from the Westwood,” Dara admitted, in a more conversational tone.  “So go ahead, tell me I’m wrong.  Tell my father I’m wrong.  Tell anyone I’m wrong.  I’m sure they’ll believe you over me.  But the Magelord is a good lord, and he’s far better than Sir Erantal, and some of us have the sense to see that.  But what do I know?” she said, tauntingly. 

“I’ll see you beaten for this!” he snarled.

“You’ll do no such thing, Master Railan,” Gareth suddenly intervened.  “Dara spoke her mind, and said much others would have said.  The Magelord doesn’t agree with children being beaten for having opinions, I imagine.”

“Another cursed wizard!” spat Railan.  “You’ll bring doom and destruction on us all,” he warned Gareth.  “And you’ll be the ones to help!” he added, jabbing an accusing finger at Dara.

“Doom and destruction?” Dara snorted, looking around at the busy market.  There were easily four times more people there than in the markets she remembered.  Instead of making her feel intimidated, the audience emboldened her – particularly when she saw several sympathetic faces nodding toward her in the crowd.  Both Sevendori and Bovali faces.  “You sound like a bad character in a minstrel’s story, Master Railan! Look at how full this market is! This looks like prosperity, not doom and destruction.  If this is the curse we get for living under a magelord . . . I think we can live with it!”

Chapter Eleven

To Arms!

“Little Bird, why did you have to go open your beak like that?” complained her father sadly, that night after dinner.  News of her ugly debate with Railan had spread across the Westwood like fire, and the repercussions of her bold speech were swift.  Her father had quickly taken her aside, to his accustomed seat near the Flame, and began chastising her as soon as the trenchers had been cleared away. 

She knew she had a lecture coming for her behavior, but Dara wasn’t ready to be cowed, yet.  She was still angry.

“I didn’t say anything that I wouldn’t say in front of the Flame,” she promised, her eyes automatically glancing to the dancing fire.  Lying in front of the Flame was shameful.  “And he called me impudent,” she added, irritated.

“Proving that even Railan the Steady can recognize that water is wet,” her father said, darkly.  “Dara, do you realize what you have done?  Not only did you challenge a powerful man, you insulted him.”

“I just reminded him of the same oath you both took to the Magelord,” she said, defiantly. 

“And since when is it your place to remind powerful men of such things?” her father countered.

“Isn’t that what impudent girls do?” Dara asked, boldly.  “Gareth told me that I only got away with it because I’m a cute girl!”

“Who is Gareth?” her father demanded, confused.

“He’s a mage I met at market,” Dara said, her eyes darting guiltily at the Flame.  Technically, she met him in a field, but she reasoned that she wasn’t implying, necessarily, that she had met him for the very first time at market . . . unless her father chose to interpret it that way.  The Flame, by all accounts, was more forgiving.  “He’s very nice.  He was going to protect me, if things got . . . violent.”

“A mage?  You’re consorting with wizards, now?”

“Aren’t you? We are ruled by one!” she challenged, boldly.

Dara fully expected Kamen to explode in rage at the defiance, but to her surprise he caught himself and immediately calmed. 

“And that fact alone may spare this Hall some grief you’ve earned it,” he sighed.  “Magelord Minalan is a fair man, and Railan the Steady is not an enthusiastic supporter of our lord . . . as you discovered,” he said, with a quiet chuckle.  “And it seems that every malcontent left in the vale has gathered to hear his whining.  Because it serves our lord’s purpose, politically, to have Railan cut down a peg in front of everyone, I don’t think he’ll take seriously any request by the man to have you beaten.”

Dara looked up sharply.  She hadn’t really considered the Yeoman’s threat seriously.

“Oh, yes, that would be within his rights,” her father agreed to her unasked question.  “You are not yet of age.  Had old Sir Erantal heard Railan’s complaint, he might have you beaten just to spite me.  And I mean a beating with a sheaf of willow reeds by the reeve, over the old stocks, in the commons, on market day.  The kind you take a few days to recover from,” he said, with a look in his eye that told Dara he’d experienced such a state personally.  “It is no small thing, Little Bird.  What you said was bold, no one would say different.  But it was also dangerous.”

“There were plenty at market who agreed with me!” she countered.

“That’s why it was dangerous,” her father replied.  “The vales are on edge right now.  The Magelord has made enemies of our neighbors, and those, like Railan, who were raised in fear and know nothing but submission are terrified of what may come.  War,” he said, after a pause, as if speaking the word aloud before the Flame would make it come to pass.  “It is a possibility.”

Dara’s heart sank.  Everyone dreaded war.  They still told stories of the day, a century before, when the vales were full of men and the fields burst with crops . . . until the Lord of Sevendor marched away with three hundred of the vale’s best men, and never returned.  And of the night, when she was just a baby, when the Warbird’s men burned down a village and took Brestal Vale away in one bloody raid.  The Westwoodmen had been safe behind their chasm, but the rest of the estates in the vale had been forced to suffer while the corrupt lord who was supposed to protect them looked on.

“But . . . we have the Magelord,” she said, almost in a whisper.

“Mage he might be, but he is still a lord, and lords wage war,” her father said, quietly.  “His magic won’t keep the wolves at bay.  We’ve heard disturbing things at market, and not just from Railan’s lips.  The Warbird is angry, it is said, over the insults he perceives our lord to have committed against him.  He is preparing troops.  No one knows when he might strike, but there is also unrest in Sashtalia, to the west of Sevendor, as the Warbird’s agents stir up trouble.  If the Warbird marches against us, it is likely that we will be assailed from two sides.”

Dara swallowed, barely able to breathe.  Caolan’s Pass was half a day’s walk from this very spot, she knew, and beyond that . . . beyond that lie the enemies of Sevendor, from what her father was saying.  Worse, in the event of war, the Westwood was pledged to guard that pass.  Her family.

“I’m . . . I’m sorry, Father,” Dara said, formally.  “I should have held my tongue.  I knew not what was at stake, and thought I merely spoke my mind.”

Kamen looked at his daughter in the light of the Flame with approval.  “The Westwoodmen learn early how it is more important to listen to what is said than to be heard.  You are learning the beginnings of wisdom, Dara.  It looks good on you.  But we both know just how spiteful Railan can be.  I think it would be best for all concerned if you avoided the market for a few weeks until this matter is behind us.  Spend the days hunting and training that splendid bird.  By midsummer things should have blown over.”

“Just what will happen at the Magical Fair?” Dara asked Gareth, two weeks later when she again found herself at market.  Frightful had been adept at attracting onlookers, and Kamen had not hesitated to capitalize on the beautiful bird.  If that meant he had to bring Dara along, too, he was willing to bear it. The row between the Westwood and Genly had blown over, just as her father had suggested it would, replaced in the minds of the marketgoers by the latest gossip from the castle.

She had found Gareth wandering around the stalls, idly gazing at the wares and keeping an eye on the proceedings as a good marketwarden should.  As the Bovali and the Sevendori seemed less inclined to fight, this time, that meant he was bored for much of the time – and that gave Dara a few precious minutes to ask him questions.

“Well, it will be like any old fair, I suppose,” Gareth shrugged.  “Lots of merchants, lots of food, probably a couple of fights.  Only it will be all wizards, or mostly wizards so . . . well, no one really knows,” he finally admitted.  “No one has ever had one before.”

“Why not?”

“Such things were actually illegal, under the old Censorate of Magic – or at least strongly discouraged.  The Censorate never liked it when too many wizards got together at once and starting talking and trading.   So when Master Minalan decided to break the tradition, he figured Sevendor was the best place to hold it.  After the Censorate tried to arrest him at Chepstan Fair . . .” he said, shaking his head with a grin, “they should know better than to come to Sevendor.”

“But they will be selling . . . magical things?”

“They’ll mostly be selling boring old regular things that you can use to make magical things,” explained the young mage, “but I’m sure they’ll be plenty of demonstrations.  And of course there’s some sort of tournament or contest.”

That got Dara’s attention.  “What kind of contest?”

“Master Min is being a bit secretive about it, but from what I understand there will be some sort of open competition among all low magi.  The winner, it is rumored, will be given . . . a witchstone.”  He said the word in hushed tones, as if speaking of something sacred.

“A witchstone?  What’s that?”

Gareth looked at her in surprise.  “You really don’t know a lot, do you?”

“Hey!” Dara protested.  “I’ve just turned thirteen!”

“I forget, sometimes,” Gareth chuckled.  “Witchstones are made up of irionite, the mages call it.  It’s a kind of magical green amber.  It has the power to magnify the potency of any mage who uses one.  More than tenfold, it is said.  It can turn a powerful mage into a great mage, or a mediocre mage into a good one.  It’s nearly unlimited.  And incredibly illegal, according to the Censorate.”

“So how did the Magelord get some?”

“Do you jest?” asked Gareth, amused.  “That’s the whole reason he was given Sevendor.  He took a witchstone from a goblin shaman in battle, away in the Minden mountains.  He used it to fight the goblins, last year, and he helped other magi get some.  The Duke of Castal said he could keep it.  In defiance of four hundred years of Censorate laws and ducal tradition.”

This was all news to Dara, who had always thought of magi as either great and powerful or weak and tricky vagabonds. “So why did the Duke do that?”

“No one knows,” admitted Gareth.  “Politics, most likely.  But by doing that he broke the power of the Censorate to regulate magic in Castal.  And threw them out.  They’re awful, to ordinary magi.  They wear long black and white checkered cloaks and hunt down clandestine magi.  Hedgewizards, footwizards, village witches, anyone with Talent who isn’t properly registered.  And they enforced the Bans on Magic against the registered magi.  No one liked them.”

“Well, they don’t sound very likable!”

“They’re not.  They arrest and execute magi all the time.  They kept a lock on trade in magical materials to discourage any one mage from becoming too powerful.  They’re warmagi, only they don’t answer to anyone but themselves.  Even the Dukes fear them – or did, before Master Minalan came along.  And the goblin invasion.  When the Duke asked the Censorate if they could keep his people safe and they said no, he overturned the Bans and had the Censors ejected from the Duchy.”

“That’s . . . didn’t he get into trouble?”

“With who? His fellow dukes?  The Censorate swore allegiance to the king, and there hasn’t been a king for over four hundred years, now.  So there really isn’t anyone who could get him into trouble.  Anyway, because he did that now any mage can theoretically use witchstones, now that the Censorate is gone from Castal.”

“Are they valuable?”

“One is worth enough to buy a barony,” promised the mage.  “Or an army.  Or a fleet.  You don’t understand, Dara, they’re precious.  Far more than gold.  Or gems.  Or even lands.  I came to Sevendor hoping to get one, and even though I failed as a warmagi, I’m still hoping I can convince Master Min . . .”

“So what kind of contest is it?” Dara interrupted, fascinated by the idea. 

“I have no idea.  I do know that a bunch of Master Min’s closest and most powerful wizards are working on it.  And that there are witchstones available that he could give away.  So it’s quite possible he would grant one of the lesser ones to a mage who distinguished himself in the contest.  Apart from being a really good warmage, that might be about the only way you could get one.”

“Surely they’ll reserve that contest for practiced magi?”

“Or maybe Master Min enjoys watching the various wizards compete among themselves.  From what Master Banamor has told me, the contest will be open to anyone.  And . . . between you and me,” he said, looking around the crowded market with concern, “I think he likes to see how people respond to problems.”

“So you’re joining?”

“Me? No!  I’m good,” admitted the awkward young wizard, “but there are going to be warmagi with years of experience competing to keep me at the back of the line.  And I’ll probably be too busy working the fair to participate in it.  Master Banamor has been announced as the Fairwarden, and as I’m already deputy Spellwarden, I’m sure I’ll have five times too much to do to consider competing.”

“So what kind of contest will it be?”

“I have no idea,” sighed the young wizard, philosophically.  “But it will be tough.  Master Minalan has Lady Pentandra working on it.  She’s the one organizing all of the magi, now that the Censorate is gone.  She’s one of the most powerful magi in the duchies.  So you can bet that the trial will be tough.” 

Dara could imagine Lady Pentandra, a dour old matron swathed in robes that concealed everything about her . . . except her piercing eyes.  Dara shuddered at the vision – if that was the kind of mage who was designing the contest, and Gareth, a real wizard, was reluctant to try his mettle, Dara didn’t think she had much chance.  Her bilocation was going splendidly, but she didn’t really know any actual magic beyond that.

“That’s too bad,” Dara agreed.  “You deserve one of these witchstones, Gareth.  You’ve been very nice to me.”

“Me?  It’s me who should be thanking you.  I don’t know anyone in Sevendor, except for a few wizards.  You’re really the first native who’s been . . . welcoming.”

“We’re really a kind of ignorant lot, aren’t we?” she giggled.

“It makes me wonder why Master Minalan was so determined to build his estate here,” he agreed.  “I mean, you Sevendori are good people, don’t mistake me.  But . . . well, I suppose I’m just used to being around people who know how to read.  Everyone at the academy did.  Here . . . outside of the wizards, there probably aren’t ten books in the domain.”

“You are probably right,” conceded Dara.  “Maybe I’ll learn, someday.”