“All right,” she said, after taking a deep breath and changing her own attitude, “you’re going to need your metal comb,” she said, fingering the rat’s nest of flame-red hair that fell over her shoulder. “And a lot of time . . .”
Chapter Seven
Sevendor Castle
The day of Yule dawned overcast and gloomy, cold and windy, but to Dara it was exciting. She hurriedly fed Frightful and began preparations for her bath. Even with her sister’s help, and with the assistance of a dress she had outgrown but which almost fit Dara, it took hours, it seemed, to prepare for the event.
Finally she was ready to go . . . but had to wait in the Hall on her brother and the other men in the party. They were gathering additional stores from the sheds and holds, at Kamen’s orders. Her father had heard how the suddenly-expanded population of the castle had picked the market bare, and now with winter here they were struggling to feed them all. Yet Master Minalan had yet to send out parties to demand additional food from his estates, as most normal lords would do.
Then there was the fact that Sevendor had recently expanded, which had everyone excited. Word had come that the magelord had led a small military expedition against the nearby estate of Brestal, and had taken the small tower there without bloodshed in a nocturnal raid.
That was serious news. Brestal lay to the north and east of the Westwood, beyond Matten’s Helm, a separate lobe of the valley that had, until several years ago, been an estate of Sevendor. But a few years back one of Sevendor’s neighboring lords, the fearsome Warbird of West Fleria, Sire Gimbal, had coveted it for one of his sons. Though everyone knew it was wrong for the lord to do so, he had raided the estate, burned a village to the ground, and installed his son as its puppet lord. Sir Erantal, who was supposed to defend and protect Sevendor in the name of the Duke, had done nothing about the conquest, partially to punish the people of the Vale who had grown unruly in the face of his increasing demands. Sir Erantal was a hired knight – he did not care about the domain.
But the folk of Sevendor certainly had an opinion about the matter. Being told that a third of the domain was no longer part of Sevendor was an affront to the pride of the whole vale. Westwoodmen and Vale folk alike had been insulted by Erantal’s dereliction of his sworn duties, but there was nothing that could be done.
But the Spellmonger, apparently, had wanted his estate back and his domain whole and secure. And he was willing to fight for it.
Dara was amazed at the transformation in her father, brother, uncles, and all the other men o the Hall when they heard the news. They seemed to carry themselves with more pride, and began speaking of their lord – whom few had even laid eyes on – with new respect.
Aunt Anira and the other older women of the manor, on the contrary, were suddenly worried. Military action was always worrisome, and even though Sevendor had not had to muster arms in Dara’s lifetime, the prospect of battles ahead concerned her aunt. The armory, in a bay off of the main hall, was filled with old spears and mail coats, iron helms, short swords and bows. And there were rumored to be other caches of arms, deep in the woods or other hidden places, should the Westwoodmen need them.
“That’s just the stupidest thing I’ve heard,” Anira admitted, when Dara had wandered into the kitchen while waiting for her brother. “Going and goading a powerful lord like Sire Gimbal is just asking for trouble! And in the winter, too! The man has taken several domains in the last few years, and most far more bloody than how he dealt with Brestal. What is he thinking, endangering us all like that?”
“But isn’t Brestal supposed to be part of Sevendor? Wasn’t he right to take it back?” Dara asked, confused.
“Right and wise are often strangers,” Aunt Anira admitted, citing an old proverb after some lip-chewing consideration. “It may be our lord’s right to that estate, but when tempers flare and swords are drawn, it will be his people who suffer. Do you really want to see your brothers and cousins go off to war and never return again?” she demanded, shaking a spoon under Dara’s nose.
“N-no,” Dara admitted. She had never really considered such a thing . . . but just as her sister was fated to wed, her brother Kyre, as a future Yeoman of the domain, would indeed be expected to lead troops if the new magelord went to war. Not just her brother, but her father, uncles, cousins and all the other able-bodied men of the Westwood. She tried to imagine the estate without them around, and shook her head. She could not imagine it running at all, much less with the prosperity the Westwoodmen had become accustomed to.
“But Lord Minalan has his own men,” Dara pointed out. “They should be arriving any time, now!”
“Those Wilderland men! And do you think he’d risk them when he could compel the lives of strangers?” Anira fumed.
Dara didn’t know what to say to that, so she retreated back to the safety of the Flame in the hall. She had never considered that before. The Magelord, for all the good he had done the domain, also had the power to order her brothers and cousins off to war . . . perhaps never to return. The Westwoodmen were canny archers and passable rangers. There were stones in the fireplace memorializing those who had left the Westwood in service to their lord, and had never come back.
That sobered her, as she finished her preparations for the court. While her excitement over the evening was still present, it was tempered by the serious nature of the festival. The Yule Court was, traditionally, where the Yeomen of Sevendor swore their allegiance to the Lord, by proxy or in person, as well as presentation of “gifts” from each estate in the form of tribute, often negotiated in advance. Sir Erantal had only required the symbolic rite every few years (though he was enthusiastic about the tribute), and for the last few occasions her father had sent an emissary rather than go himself.
But this year the Magelord had summoned the Yeomen in person, and only Kamen’s bad leg had kept him from attending. Dara knew that was significant. The vale was over six miles long and three wide, and there were several yeomanries: estates, villages, agricultural manors. To gather together all the leaders was a weighty thing. She could see it pained her father not to go in person, but traveling that far, up that steep a grade on his splinted leg could re-injure it, and everyone knew it. He was hobbling around for short periods, now, using a staff for support, but he was still far from recovered from his skirmish with the old castle men.
There was a stir out in the yard in the late afternoon, with dogs yapping and a boys shouting. Dara went outside and saw a great store of food and supplies – including a few freshly-hunted stags, dressed and salted and ready for the fire.
“What . . . is this?” Anira was demanding.
“It’s the Master’s orders,” Kyre explained, as he was overseeing the distribution of the fare. “It’s to go to Sevendor Castle for the feast.”
“He did not discuss this with me!” she said, resolutely. “There’s enough there for two feasts!” The Westwoodmen had a large store of meat and nuts and other foods secreted away, against the depredations of the – old – castle folk. But part of their wealth in such things came from their thrifty nature . . . and what had been unloaded in the yard was a gracious amount.
“The castle folk are expecting more settlers,” Kyre said, patiently, as he faced down the woman who had raised him like a mother. “Their stores are low, and they’ve spent a fortune at market to procure without once asking for more than was their rightful due. The Master of the Wood has decided to voluntarily send more food to them as a demonstration of his compassion and the loyalty of the Westwood.”
“We’ll see about that!” Anira snapped. “Kamen may be Master of the Hall, but I am mistress of my kitchen and the stores! If there isn’t enough for us—”
“You will not,” Kyre said, sharply. That was a new tone in her oldest brother’s voice, one which commanded respect. “I checked the stores myself. We have enough to go through two winters or more, without even hunting. I will not have good folk go hungry while we hoard food like bandits.”
/> More than his voice, his mannerisms had changed. He seemed to stand straighter than she remembered, and when did he get so tall? Just a few weeks ago she remembered Anira slapping his hand with a wooden spoon in the kitchen over some slight – yet this was not a boy in front of her. He was not attempting to persuade her, or even invoking his father’s authority – he was establishing his own.
Anira was not having any of it, though. “And do you think you’re old enough now to dictate how I run my kitchens, lad?” she said, challenging, her hands on her hips.
“I am son and heir of the Master of the Wood,” Kyre said evenly, his brows fixed as his voice dropped. “When he dies, my word will be law here. Until he dies, his word is law, here . . . even in your kitchens. And his word sent this food to the castle. You need not bother him about a command he has already made.”
Anira snorted, but there was a note of doubt in her voice, now. “So I just have to contend with the shortfall, should it come, do I?”
“If the kitchens have a lack, you may address that with the Master . . . but until they do, you may rest assured that he has acted with the best interests of the Hall in mind.” Kyre’s tone was wholly business-like, now, and not at all deferent to Anira’s maternal position.
Dara was flabbergasted. She had never heard any of her brothers speak so strongly to their aunt. But Kyre was correct, their father did rule the manor . . . and addressing him about a decision he’d already made was disrespectful. While Anira could and did do it regularly – “speaking her mind” she commonly called it – it was a presumption, and everyone knew it. Only the astute job she did overseeing the work and her position as Uncle Keram’s wife kept her from being taken to task over it.
Kyre, apparently, did not have their father’s patience with such presumption . . . and had spoken to Anira more sternly and with more rank than anyone had dared.
What astonished Dara more was the reaction. She expected the woman to explode into a rage and lay about the boys (and possibly her – Anira wasn’t particularly accurate) with her long wooden spoon.
Instead she stared at Kyre and eventually dropped her eyes. “As the Master has spoken, in front of the Flame,” she agreed, reluctantly. “Merry Yule, then,” she said, simply, and rushed inside past Dara.
“What . . . was that?” she asked herself aloud. She hadn’t expected an answer, but her sister Lista was nearby, having seen the whole episode through a window.
“That was Kyre acting as the Heir of the Wood for the first time,” she chuckled. “Father and the other men woke him up last night, after all were in bed. Some stupid rite or another. But he’s been wearing that sword ever since,” she said, pointing toward their oldest brother. Sure enough, hanging from Kyre’s belt was a ranger’s sword, such as were hanging in the armory in the Hall. Dara’s breath caught.
“Are they . . . expecting trouble?”
“No, I don’t think so,” her sister dismissed. “I think they just want to make a good showing. You know how those vale folk are,” she mentioned. “They think we eat our babies and howl at the moon half the time, anyway. It’s good relations to remind them of that.”
“Flame! We’re not barbarians!” Dara moaned.
“We’re Westwoodmen, that’s worse,” she snickered. “But the other Yeomanries need to remember that. Especially with all these half-wild Wilderlands folk Lord Minalan is bringing in.”
“Is he old enough for a sword?” she asked doubtfully.
“Plenty,” her sister agreed. “We’ve just not had the need. But the boys sneak off and practice with sticks somewhere, I know. He wears it well, I think,” she considered.
“I guess,” Dara said, absently. The blade under his mantle seemed so foreign to her brother, somehow . . . but she couldn’t deny that he carried himself more proudly while wearing it. “That’s it? Father gave him a sword, and suddenly he’s all grown up?”
“Boys are strange,” her sister agreed. “But it means that they think that Kyre is old enough to lead the Hall, should anything happen to Father.”
“Kyre? What could possibly . . .” Dara said, trailing off. Of course something could happen to Kamen. Everyone died and fed the Flame eventually. All the talk of war, with the reconquest of Brestal, made her consider the possibility for the first time. Even her beloved father would die. And when that happened, the Hall would need a new leader. She couldn’t imagine anyone seriously taking orders from her brother – he was only seventeen – but she couldn’t deny that her other brothers and male cousins were treating him differently.
“He’s our brother . . . and he’s going to be our boss someday,” her sister said, with resignation. “I guess we’re lucky. Kobb could have been born first instead of Kyre.”
Kobb was their mutually least-favorite brother. A smart-ass with a wickedly cruel sense of humor and a laugh like a concussed llama, he had terrorized each sister in turn over the years. He had messed with Dara often enough . . . before she’d gotten Frightful. Apparently the idea of having his eyes scratched out by a falcon without a sense of humor was what it took to keep Kobb at a safe distance. The idea of their goofy brother as Master of the Wood, instead of Kyre, was troubling. But even Kobb, who was even more defiant and obstinate than Dara, deferred to Kyre now, she noticed.
The party eventually set out, and for one of only a handful of times in her life Dara ventured beyond the chasm that was the eternal border of the Westwood, proper, and entered the wider world. Not that she was going far. Sevendor Castle was about a mile away from Westwood Hall as the falcon flew. The long, circuitous route through the valewood and down into the road to the castle took far longer, of course. Once they arrived at the gate of the castle, the sun had set behind the ridge and all was growing dark.
All but Sevendor Castle, that was. It was lit with a strange, unearthly glow from several bright balls of light that just seemed to float in mid-air.
“Magelights,” her brother Kyre explained quietly, when she halted to stare. “The castle uses them all the time, now. No torches, no tapers – well, just a few, I guess; not everyone there is a mage. But the Great Hall is lit by them now.”
“Amazing!” Dara grinned. She had never seen anything so wondrous before, save her falcon. The castle seemed to glow and sparkle in the arcane light. “So spells for light, spells for wood . . . what does the magelord even need with villeins, then?”
“Someone has to empty the chamberpots,” Kobb quipped. “No magic for that, probably.”
“You will be respectful and polite to everyone this evening,” Kyre ordered his younger brother. “The magelord is expecting a lot of new settlers from the Wilderlands, and everyone is like to be on-edge over Brestal. This could develop into a tense situation, and I won’t have it said that the Westwoodmen contributed to it.”
Dara was shocked – none of the young men with her gave any of their usual jeers or insults when Kyre spoke, now. Not even Kobb. Uncle Keram looked pleased, nodding as his own sons signaled their obedience.
They walked under the gate along with other folk destined for Sevendor Castle’s Yule celebration – not just Vale folk, from Genly and Gurisham, but strangely-dressed people from the Wilderlands, way to the northwest, and good Riverlands tradesmen wearing their festival best under their thick woolen cloaks.
“Most of those now live in Sevendor Village,” Kobb whispered to her, when a beefy-looking man in a furry hat stopped ahead of them to greet a friend. “Tradesmen and artisans. Carpenters. Wainwrights. A smith. You won’t recognize the place anymore,” he promised. “They’re building houses there so fast you’d swear they’re using magic!”
“They are using magic,” Uncle Keram reminded them, quietly. “They used it to cure the timber from the valewood, and they’re using it to bind the pieces together, I’ve heard.”
“That’s very interesting,” Dara said. She didn’t know much about magic, aside from a few folktales around the Flame, but the lights above the castle intrigued her mightily. She wondere
d what they would look like from the peak.
The castle was crowded as they went through the second gatehouse and into the inner bailey. The yard was a riot of horses and wagons, carts and donkeys, castle servants yelling to each other and throngs of villeins and villagers drinking merrily in the yard outside of the castle’s great doors.
The place seemed far more festive than foreboding, now that there was a proper lord in residence. The shabby-looking exterior Dara remembered from last time she was here had been meticulously scrubbed and the steps swept. A youth (one of the Wilderlands folk, she guessed) just inside the door invited then each to wash their hands in a warm basin, and then dried them with a towel. Dara hadn’t had anyone wash and dry her hands for her since she was a child, but she had to admit it made her feel quite noble.
The hall of Sevendor Castle was even more brightly lit with the floating spheres than the exterior. Every corner and rafter in the place seemed to be lit up, and the fresh rushes on the floor had been mixed with evergreen boughs, giving the hall a spicy scent. A gallery above them contained a few village musicians sawing away at a viol, a tabor, and singing some seasonal hymns. Dara looked around at the many trestle tables that had been packed into the room. There had to be a hundred or more folk crammed in, yet there were places for plenty more.
“Where shall we put these?” Kyre asked a tall, important-looking man in a long mantle. A Wilderlord, Dara guessed. He had a darker-complexion and his face was bisected by a bushy mustache, brown hair with just a bit of curl over the top of his large ears. He carried himself with the dignity of an oak tree, she noticed, and when he spoke his voice seemed to fill the hall. Was this the Magelord? She wondered.
The tall man stared at the dressed bucks and the other provisions the boys carried or hauled in a wheelbarrow.
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