Authors: Terry Mancour
Hawkmaiden (12 page)
“I don’t tend to do things the easy way,” Dara said, gesturing with her wounded hands.
“Flame knows a truer word was never spoken. But right hungry, she is. You chose well. And I cannot wait to hear about how you went about getting to her . . . without anyone in the manor seeing you do it. That kind of dedication means you’ll be a good falconer, I suppose.”
“So . . . so I can keep her?” Dara asked, eyes wide and breathless.
“Keep her? No one else could,” Keram observed. “And she’s too young to survive in the wild on her own. Look, she’s already responding to your voice. No, Little Bird, you earned this responsibility. I won’t take it away. You will train this bird, now that you’ve taken it from the wild, and you will train it well. That means every day, just so you know.”
“Oh, Uncle Keram! I’m so . . . thank you!” was all she could say through the tears that were suddenly streaming down her face. “I’m so . . .” she added, before she felt her knees give way under her.
She heard both Keram and Kalen shout her name at once, and then her face was pressed into the cool dirt floor of the cottage. The last thing she remembered was the pain on her face and some self-criticism on how dirty the floor was. But how deliciously cool it felt against her skin. Then Dara lost consciousness.
For three more days Dara stayed at the cot in the nutwood. Three days Keram attended her, or if his duties prevented, one of her brothers. Mostly Kyre, of course, but at other times she saw her other brothers. Even Kobb, at one point. The bully even looked worried.
After three days her fever broke, and while her healing hands still ached bitterly, Dara was still wasn’t well enough to travel back to the manor. Uncle Keram and Kalen had taken turns feeding Frightful while she’d been unconscious, her dreams an unpleasant mix of the top of the mountain, the fear of getting caught, and some terror her mind could not even name, at this point. She woke once when young Kalen fetching water from the spring, while Keram cared Frightful, talking to the bird on his broad chest while he watched his niece.
It was decided to allow Dara to convalesce at the cottage, though she had ample visitors. She permitted her worried Aunt Alina to bandage her wounds without fussing at her about her dangerous stunt. Her father even visited, once, hobbling down on his bandaged leg to see the fabled bird and hear her tale of how she got her. He was worried sick, she knew, and relieved to see his youngest daughter on the mend.
Her whole family was excited to see her after the alarm she’d caused, and all of them seemed enraptured with Frightful when they came to visit. She and Frightful were minor celebrities, for a little while, and as the days grew colder there were plenty who made the trek to the nutwood. Eventually Kamen forbade all but family be allowed, so both girl and bird could get some rest.
At the end of a particularly long day, she flexed her fingers and painted them with the ointment her aunt had left before allowing herself to be led to her chamber and dumped into bed. Her baby falcon
stared at her on a perch nearby as Kalen administered the bitter tea she was also supposed to drink to help her sleep. The boy had been a huge assistance in her convalescence, and she needed to do something for him. She made a promise to herself to do so, someday.
But now other thoughts were more pressing on her mind. She stared at Frightful as her eyes began to close.
“I
can
be a falconer,” she whispered to the pretty bird in the darkness. “Uncle Keram
said
so! I can train you, Frightful,” she promised. “And when I’m done, you’ll be the most majestic falcon in history.”
Training
After three weeks living in the nutwood cottage, a room was cleared for Dara back at Westwood Hall, in consideration of her new charge. It wasn’t much bigger than her old chamber, but it was higher up the squat round tower at the south end of the Hall. It had enough room for her narrow bed, her chest of possessions, and Frightful’s block.
Frightful was skittish and nervous about the move. Just as she had started to get used to the small confines of the cottage, she had to re-adjust to the noisy environs of Westwood Hall. Dara’s room gave her some measure of privacy, and for two days Dara stayed there with her, coaxing the falcon
to fly from glove to block and back again.
Eventually, however, Dara’s uncle intervened. After checking Frightful’s condition, and the state of her wingfeathers, he declared that she should take the bird around the house – hooded, at first – to get her used to the strange sounds and smells of the manor that was to be her new home.
“It’s called ‘manning’ a bird,” her uncle explained. “You can never truly tame a bird, the way you do a dog, but you can get it accustomed to the things that would scare away a wild hawk or falcon. Get it used to being around people’s voices and smells, dogs and cookfires, horses and chickens and that sort of thing. If a bird isn’t properly manned, it will stay skittish and possibly not return to you, if it gets scared off.”
That made sense to Dara, and that day she started bringing Frightful down to the hall when it was mostly empty, to get her used to the place. She let her perch on her gloved fist, her jesses clutched tightly in Dara’s fingers lest she startle and injure herself flying indoors.
One consequence she hadn’t counted on was how many people on the estate still wanted to see the bird she’d risked her life for. Every one of them was openly admiring of the beautiful raptor, though Frightful seemed far less enchanted with her sudden popularity.
She trembled around people, at first, but after the third day she stopped being quite so jumpy and started to relax a bit. That was gratifying – it was nice to be able to carry on a conversation without worrying about your falcon suddenly flying away. The popularity Dara enjoyed wasn’t lost on her, either. Her brother and their cousins made her tell the story of how she had climbed the mountain a dozen times, already, even insisting she do it in front of the Flame to avoid any embellishments.
People had changed how they reacted to her, too. Instead of treating her like a scheming brat, they looked at her with a new . . . respect. While what she had done was dangerous and stupid, by all accounts, it had also been uncommonly brave. The falcon on her fist was proof of the deed, and her growing mastery of Frightful’s care had caused folks who had teased or belittled her before to look at her in a new light.
Of course, Dara conceded that she, herself, had changed. The teasing games and pranks she’d played on her older siblings seemed so petty, now. Facing death, and achieving something she had worked hard for, gave her new perspective. She heard the whispers. Dara the Brat was gone. They were starting to look at her like a true daughter of the Master of the Wood, near enough nobility, within the confines of the Westwood. It was the difference that honest respect made.
Dara was gratified by the change in perspective, but she was too busy to enjoy it much. The fact of the matter was that she wasn’t getting into trouble as much because she was suddenly incredibly mature . . . she wasn’t getting into trouble because caring for and training a bird was a day-in, day-out job, and she just didn’t have time for anything else. She barely fed and bathed herself, much less plotted to get dirty or put pebbles in her brothers’ shoes. Dara had a job, and it was not one she could escape.
She was in the Great Hall, one early winter’s day, Frightful on her shoulder for a change, speaking with her uncle about designing and building a proper mews in the spring, when one of her distant cousins – Kraf, she thought – burst into the Hall with incredible news.
“Sir Erantal is gone! He’s been replaced by the Duke!” the man barked out, breathlessly.
That set the entire Hall in an uproar so loud that Frightful squawked in protest, and Dara had to put her hood on her to calm her down.
Someone brought Kraf a mug of ale while everyone who could gathered around him in front of the Flame to hear the specifics.
Kraf had his eye on a girl from Sevendor Village and with her father’s permission worked for the village headman, Railan the Steady, two days a week for coin toward eventually setting up a household. He had been in the village when a long train of mounted men and wains had rumbled up Sevendor’s road to the outside world, right to the gate of the castle. A train headed by the new lord.
After demanding entry, it seemed, the new lord produced the papers that demonstrated his new ownership, and tossed old Sir Erantal out on his ear in a most impolite manner. He hadn’t witnessed it, himself, but he had seen the wicked old knight astride a horse, headed out of the vale looking dejected, and the tale of his removal spread like wildfire.
That was news, indeed. Sir Erantal had been the tenant lord of Sevendor since Dara was a baby. He was a figure of little respect and much revilement among his supposed subjects. The pressure the man had brought to bear on the Westwood to increase his profit from the estate had been strong, and only the insular nature and strong defense of the Westwood had allowed them to enjoy what little prosperity they could.
“What of our new lord?” Kamen asked, excited and curious. “Losing Erantal could be a blessing or a curse. The new lord is no tenant?”
“Nay, Master, he is titled,” agreed her cousin. “That I know for certain. He was given Sevendor by the Duke for service on the field of battle in the westlands, it is said.”
“Ah! A warrior!” Kamen remarked with admiration, and a little anxiety. “What kind of man is he?”
“I know only that he brought a great retinue, that he is a young man, and that he has a young bride who is expecting their first child.”
“That . . . that is interesting. Very interesting,” Kamen said, stroking his beard. “Sevendor has a lord and a lady again. That hasn’t happened in six generations. Not a properly seated lord.”
“But what does it mean, Kamen?” her Aunt Anira asked, worriedly.
“Mean?” he asked, surprised. “It could mean a good many things. The only certainty is that Sir Erantal will not be bothering us again. Beyond that . . .” he shrugged. “A new lord could mean improvements. Or it could mean new fees and taxes. It will depend entirely on what kind of man the new lord is. Of old, our ancestors swore before the Flame to protect and uphold the rightful lord of Sevendor. I’ve always taken that to mean a man who sees it as his home, not his property. We will have to wait and see what kind of man he is,” he repeated to himself, stroking his beard.
“Kraf, take Dalc and Kabe to the village with you tomorrow,” Dara’s uncle said, suddenly. “Hang around the edges of the village, see what you can make of the situation. Be home by noon, and let us know.”
The next day brought even more news – not only was Sir Erantal’s departure confirmed, but the new lord had begun cleaning out the dingy old castle the moment he’d set eyes on it. He’d drafted dozens of hands to help from the village, and even as far as Gurisham. Sevendor Village was in an uproar, although it was reported that a cow had been butchered and given to the village folk to sooth them.
The day also brought word of the names of their new lord and lady: Lord Minalan and Lady Alya, both in their early twenties and fair. He was from the Riverlands, the story was told, the ennobled son of a baker; she was a Wilderlands maiden he’d met while on campaign.
“It seems awfully romantic,” her sister mused at dinner that night. “If he’s a warrior, a man-at-arms who saved a count or something, and got Sevendor as a reward he must be very strong and brave . . . and they say that he’s handsome!”
“And married,” reminded Aunt Alina. “But he’s giving that moldy old castle a proper cleaning. And spent good money doing it. The lord is not who I worry about. It’s all these strange-sounding
folk he’s brought into the Vale.”
“And more on the way,” assured Kabe, who wasn’t a cousin of hers any way Dara could figure it. “Many more. We overheard two of them strange-sounding ones, talking about it. More by Yule, it’s said.”
“More?” asked Anira suspiciously, her spoon stopped half-way to her mouth. “How
many
more?”
“Many more,” repeated Kabe. “They’re Wilderlands folk who were driven from their homes by goblins. Lord Minalan is re-settling them in Sevendor.” He looked around, anxiously.
“More folk in Sevendor,” Kamen said, shaking his head. “Well, the Vale’s been scant, Flame knows, since that big war. Took almost three hundred good men, and not a one came back. Before that there were thousands in Sevendor. Twice as many manors. Every field was farmed, at one time.”
“That’s hard to believe,” snorted Dara’s Uncle Keram. “Who would want to live here?”
“It’s not so bad, compared to some other places,” Kamen said, unpersuasively. “I’ve traveled a bit. There are worse places than Sevendor. A few more folk would be a boon.”
“A few more
proper
folk,” her aunt insisted. “Not foreigners from . . . from . . . from the Wilderlands, or wherever they are.”
“Vale folk are vale folk,” Kamen disagreed. “Matters not how many, or how peculiar they speak. More folk means better prices at market.”
“More folk means
higher
prices at market,” complained her aunt.
“We’ll see,” Kamen admitted. “Let’s see how the new lord treats us on market day. Take a small crew, lead it yourself, Keram. One booth,” he cautioned.
“The castle has sent word out for provision,” warned Kabe. “Foodstuffs might do better than leather,” he proposed.
“A fair point,” agreed Kamen. “Take a few hams, some bacon, some eggs, and some nuts. See what prices you get. And find out more about this new lord.”
“Oh, he’s not just any kind of lord, either,” Kabe added, thoughtfully, as he chewed. “I heard one of his men speaking, one of the big knights that rode with them. Called him . . . what was it . . .”
“Knight? Banneret?” quizzed her uncle, curiously.
“
Magelord,
” Kabe’s memory finally supplied. “They called him ‘magelord.’ Uh . . . what’s a magelord?”
* * *
In the days that followed, the excitement provided by Frightful was forgotten at Westwood Hall as more and more exciting news came from the Vale concerning their new lord . . . their new magelord.
For that was, it was explained, the title Lord Minalan bore. He was called the Spellmonger, as he had been a humble village spellmonger, and he’d saved an entire domain, it was said, from goblins away in the Wilderlands to the west.
Kamen was puzzled
with each new report that came, particularly ones that referenced magic.
“We’re to be ruled by a
wizard
, then?” he asked his brother, before supper. “I thought it was forbidden for wizards to hold title and lands?”
“He’s new,” explained Dara’s uncle, while she listened intently to conversation, pretending to inspect her bird’s plumage. “And he’s powerful. I’ve never seen the castle look cleaner . . . or old Railan more bitter. He’s been told to house folk on the Commons, and in vacant lots in the village, and it looked like he was crapping hot coals when he spoke of it.”
“Were many speaking against the new lord?” asked Dara’s aunt, who was constantly overhearing such conversations. Almost as much as Dara did.
“Not at all,” reported Dara’s uncle. “Most folk were quite glad to see the end of Erantal. And the castle folk are paying in hard coin now, not credit or tokens . . . and buying everything in sight. Every ham and every nut we sold, and for nearly double last market!”
“And he’s not doing anything unnatural to the folk?” asked Dara’s mother, skeptically.
“He tore out the stocks, his first night here,” her uncle replied to his wife, meaninfully. Aunt Alina eyes got larger. The stocks were particularly hated as an arbitrary and humiliating punishment, usually reserved for those who offended the castle.
“Perhaps he’s not so bad, then,” conceded Dara’s mother.
“There’s more,” her uncle continued. “The new castellan is hiring men. Construction, he says, when the wood arrives. He wants tents and shelters all over the commons, before Yule. And at the castle,” he added. “Says he’ll pay in good coin.”
“I’ve never spent a bad one,” chuckled Kamen. “See if you can spare a few lads from shelling and curing for a few days. No telling when this lord’s coin will run out. Or when the new taxes will start. Might as well be our sweat as is bought as the Vale folk. We can get some folk in closer, take a careful look at this magelord of ours.”
“You don’t really expect he’ll start turning people into pigs, do you, Father?” Dara asked.
“I don’t expect anything except the sun rising and your aunts’s ire, Little Bird,” Kamen assured her. “But I do intend to be prepared.”
