Hawkmaiden

by Terry Mancour

  “What . . . what is this, may I ask? And who are you?”

  “I am Kyre, son of Kamen, Master of the Wood,” Kyre said, proudly. “And I bring our Yule tribute . . . and a gift from the Master of the Westwood to the Magelord. My father apologizes for being unable to be here himself, but his leg is yet splinted after an accident this autumn.”

  “And I am Sir Cei, castellan to Sire Minalan, the Magelord of Sevendor,” the man – a real knight, Dara realized excitedly, and one who looked the part the way Sir Erantal didn’t – said, graciously. “To what occasion does the Master of the Wood ascribe this generous bounty?”

  “No more than the thoughtful consideration of a yeoman for his rightful lord,” Kyre said, boldly, stressing the term “rightful” just a hint.

  Dara couldn’t believe this was actually her brother speaking. Kyre had always been confident, but he spoke with the tall castellan nearly as he would a peer. “When he heard the Lord was expecting . . . additional guests for Yule,” he said, referring to the Wilderlands folk that were arriving at the castle from up the Sevendor Road even now, “he did not want it said that the Castle lacked the hospitality of the season because the Westwood did not provide. By the Flame, he would not have it so.”

  Sir Cei looked surprised and grateful, and then carefully studied her brother’s face. “I think I’m going to like your father, young Kyre of Westwood. Pray introduce me to the rest of your party,” he encouraged.

  “If it please you,” Kyre said. “This is my Uncle Keram, called the Crafty, my father’s right-hand man. My brothers Kobb and Kran, my cousins Kapi, Keru and Kitt, and my uncle Kamal . . . and this is my little sister, Lenodara,” he finished. Dara was startled by the introduction, although she had known it was coming, and hurried to give the tall knight a curtsey – only the second time she had ever made the formal gesture in earnest.

  “A fine family, and a fine estate you have,” Sir Cei boomed, warmly. “I will have the servants take charge of your bounty, and move it to the kitchens and storerooms. It is much appreciated. Please, by the gods come in and warm yourselves, take some wine and food . . . Magelord Minalan will be holding court and receiving pledges of fealty in a while,” he assured them.

  The Westwoodmen made their way toward the large stone fireplace as if the Flame bade them. Along the way Dara passed some folk she knew but many who she did not. She made sure to keep her eyes open and her ears pricked up to hear the slightest bit of gossip.

  Kyre filled his drinking horn from a jug borne by the castle butler, and Dara found herself with a battered but polished tin cup full of wine – the first unwatered wine she’d ever had. She took a sip and immediately regretted it.

  She vowed to sip it, slowly. And not much – the flavor did not like her tongue. But sipping gave her an opportunity to observe the rapidly-filling hall and determine who was who among the crowd. That’s why her father had sent her, after all.

  The Genlymen and the Southridge folk were huddled in one corner of the hall, while the Gurisham folk and a delegation from Caolan’s Pass, including old Yeoman Karkan and his children, was near to the folk from suddenly-reunited Brestal. Dara could see these people as regular folk of Sevendor Vale - Sevendori.

  Then there was the knot of strangely-dressed Wilderlands folk at the other end of the Great Hall. The Bovali, she overheard them call themselves. As opposed to the Sevendori.

  We’re the Sevendori, she realized. She had never considered herself so before. The Westwood was part of Sevendor, but it wasn’t of it. To the Wilderlands folk – the Bovali – she and the villein farmer girls from Genly might as well been the same, she realized.

  Between the Bovali and the Sevendori were a third knot of people – the new artisans and shopkeepers who had come with the Bovali and the new lord. They looked a little uncomfortable, at first, but the Bovali were no stranger to drink, for all their odd manner of speech and dress, and they were plying the Riverlands artisans with a lot of it. Soon the new residents of Sevendor Village were toasting the health of the Magelord with their new Bovali neighbors. Yeoman Jurlor’s folk joined in, soon enough, Dara noted.

  The representatives of Genly and Southridge, Dara noted, glared balefully at the merrymaking. Railan the Steady (who had been removed from his position as head of Sevendor Village in favor of a common footwizard, she heard someone mention nearby) was deep in conversation with Yeoman Ylvine, and their faces bore looks of frustration and concern.

  Dara had seen the Southridge man at market once, and hadn’t liked him then or now. He had always held himself up as a shield between the corruption of the castle and the hardworking folk of the vale, and was respected – if not liked – nearly everywhere for his fair judgment. But he was also a figure of some derision, as well as sympathy, in the Westwood. A man who seemed so passionate about who got the privilege of plowing, sowing, weeding and harvesting a particular piece of dirt, and who ruled his estate with iron control, was the antithesis of a good life in the Wood.

  While she watched, her uncle came up behind her. “What do you see, Little Bird?”

  “Genly and Southridge are against the Magelord,” she reported, quietly. “But Jurlor, Caolan’s Pass, and the Westwood stand with the Bovali. The Brestali don’t know who to trust, and don’t care – they just want to eat. Who are the Bovali?”

  “The Wilderlands folk. Like that big knight we met, Sir Cei. The land there is wild and remote, and their folk are as hardy as the Westwoodmen, so it seems. And they’re fighters. They lost their lands to the goblins,” Keram said, just as quietly. “The Magelord rescued them, and wants to settle them here. The vale folk are not happy about it, as you can see – at least some of them,” he amended, as squat Yeoman Jurlor began to roar with laughter in the company of three Bovali.

  “The Bovali want to be friendly,” she said, realizing the situation as she spoke the words aloud to her uncle. “The vale folk – some of them – are going to try to subvert the new lord! Why would they want to do that? Everyone suffered under Sir Erantal!”

  “Not everyone suffered equally,” Keram pointed out. “Sevendor Village bore the brunt of Erantal’s whims, yet Railan the Steady was one of the most important men in the vale. And one of the richest, outside of the castle. Now he isn’t even among the top ten most important. Yeoman Ylvine has schemed to position himself near the old lord, yet now his plots are undone and he has to start anew . . . with a lord who won’t fancy his wife, I’m guessing.”

  “So what do you want me to do, Uncle?” Dara blushed, wanting to change the subject.

  “Be the Little Bird you are,” he chuckled, kindly. “Fly around the room. Keep your ears and eyes open. Say nothing. Remember everything. We’ll speak of it afterwards,” he promised.

  She nodded and began to slowly circle the room like a falcon over a rabbit.

  She was fortunate – no one paid much mind to a scrawny Westwood girl, with all the other distractions available for their eyes and ears. By the time she had made a complete circuit of the room she had a much better idea of the state of the vale, and the opinion of the vale folk of the new lord. The Genlymen, in particular, seemed angry about the wizard who now ruled them . . . though they drank his wine and ate his food freely enough.

  Finally, the Magelord himself appeared along with his lady. It was the first time Dara had seen the mage, and she was struck by how young he was. She had expected a long white beard or something, but Magelord Minalan was not much more than twenty-five, by her estimation. He had a beard, but it was close cropped and as brown as his hair.

  His wife was close to him in age, a pretty woman with honey-colored hair and a tired expression. Likely, Dara reasoned, because she was so very pregnant, and while she seemed determined to put a brave face on the festivities she did not look comfortable in the slightest.

  Dara found a spot out-of-the way near her brother when court began. She watched Kyre stand in his turn and swear fealty on behalf of the Westwood estate, and saw him receive twenty new
spears from the new lord in return.

  Twenty new spears seemed like an odd gift to Dara – you only needed a few to hunt boar, she knew. Then she realized with horror what the gift implied. The new lord had armed the Westwood not to hunt, but to go to war at his command.

  Suddenly, the Magelord did not seem so benevolent anymore.

  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!”