“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.”
“You will if your Talent erupts,” he assured her. “You can’t really become an Imperially trained mage without knowing how to read. A wild mage, maybe . . . but why would you want to do that if you didn’t have to?”
“Wild mage?”
“Someone who figures out magic on their own,” Gareth explained. “Usually wrong. Or just wrong enough to be dangerous. There are a lot of natural, wild magi out there, and some of them even learn how to use their powers, after a fashion. If they aren’t killed by the Censorate first. But Imperial training is what turns Talent into progress,” he said, confidently.
“Who would want to train me?” snorted Dara. “Besides, I have a vocation. I’m a falconer,” she said, smugly.
“A falconer who can ride behind the eyes of her falcon,” Gareth said, softly. “You’ve still told no one?”
“Just you,” she shrugged. “I don’t think anyone else would believe me. Besides, I’m getting pretty good at it.”
“Really? You’re using it to hunt?”
“More than that,” she assured him, grinning. To demonstrate, she stopped their walk and closed her eyes. In a moment she made contact with Frightful, thankful that she wasn’t hooded. Or tied. The bird had gotten used to the people at the market very quickly, and was unlikely to stray from her perch. Until called.
A moment later, Dara thrust her wrist into the sky, her thick leather gauntlet donned for the occasion. In seconds a shadow streamed over them, and then Frightful was landing gracefully on her arm.
“See?” she smiled, feeding the bird a morsel as a reward, “it’s a lot easier. I could even have told you what everyone’s hats looked like, if you asked,” she added, proudly.
“A deep and mysterious arcane skill, indeed,” he said with false gravity. “But keep practicing. It will make you an adept . . . falconer.”
She knew the young man was just teasing her, but she was grateful for the praise anyway. She had struggled mightily to train her falcon, and yet was barely respected for her efforts, back at the hall. Only Uncle Kamen, her father, and a few of her brothers were impressed with her. And none of them knew about her abilities – just that she had the potential to be a mage some day. Hearing from Gareth that she was doing well, developing her powers on her own, gave her the renewed motivation she needed to complete Frightful’s training.
Dara hunted the bird relentlessly after that. All summer she beat to the high meadows as soon as the sun was up, working for rabbits and ermine one day, doves and partridges the next. At first she returned empty-handed, as often as not. Even with her magical abilities, Frightful was still inexperienced at the hunt and Dara was an inexperienced falconer.
But they got better, together. Later, as the summer waxed full, Dara would come home at night with one very tired falcon and a string of dead animals to leave for the tanners to clean and skin.
She never kept track of her kills – she was far more concerned with making a clean kill and then rewarding Frightful for her work than worrying about her haul – but near to midsummer her uncle approached her at breakfast, one rainy day when she and Frightful were confined to the manor, and dropped a small purse in front of her.
It clinked.
“What’s this?” she asked, curious.
“Your pay,” he said, expectantly. “From what Kobb says, you’ve brought in thirty-eight rabbit skins, twenty-one ermine, and Flame-only-knows how many other creatures in the last few weeks. The market has been selling well. There’s nearly four ounces of silver in there,” he said, respectfully.
Dara’s eyes bulged. “Four OUNCES of silver?” she asked, incredulously.
“That’s after the Hall takes its share,” he reminded her as she started counting out the thin coins on the table. “Half, as is fair, to pay the tanners. But the rest is yours.”
Four ounces of silver was a lot of money, even for the daughter of the Master of the Wood. While her father and Uncle Kamen handled a lot of money on behalf of the estate, she knew that most of her brothers, sisters, and cousins were constantly seeking coin. Four ounces of silver could purchase quite a bit: a full-grown goat, for instance, or a dozen chickens. It was rent on a hovel in the vale for half a year, or the cost of one quarter of a cow.
Dara couldn’t even contemplate having that kind of fortune. A few pennies, sure, even a silver penny she’d gotten for her thirteenth birthday. But four ounces of silver was real money. The kind of money that adults made for their labor. She had no idea what to do with it – she
wanted for little, and coveted few of the ornaments that she’d seen in the market. Her sisters cold spend money like words, and seemed to desire everything they came across, but Dara was far more conservative in her tastes. In the end, she put the money with the rest of her savings in the base of the new block her cousin had built to keep her falcon in her room.
After that, Dara focused on hunting the falcon for rabbits and ermines, more than game birds, as the mammals were worth more for skins as well as meat. The day before the next market day she took five rabbits from the high meadows, which could be sold immediately at a higher price. And she returned to the market to oversee how well her trade was doing.
She wandered the market and idly examined the booths, her money jingling in her pocket as she considered and rejected many of the wares on display. As was becoming habit, she found Gareth the Mage wandering around the square with his staff-of-office in hand, examining the well-behaved patrons. The two of them fell into an easy conversation, with Gareth inquiring about the health of her falcon and her family while Dara asked about the exciting life of a Deputy Spellwarden and part-time Marketwarden.
It turned out that such a life was not particularly exciting.
“It’s been boring as a temple service, since the Magelord left for the capital,” complained the mage, good-naturedly. “Sir Cei is keeping things well in hand, and Lady Alya is in charge, but really there’s not much to do in this bloody valley in the summer but stand around and watch the wheat grow!”
“Hey! That’s a revered local pastime!” giggled Dara. “If the valefolk didn’t have their crops to dote on like children, they might take up hunting or something. Put my people out of business.”
“It is, in its defense, some of the more exciting wheat I’ve seen,” admitted Gareth with a chuckle. “And I’m mostly lying about being bored. Every week it seems Master Banamor has more work for me to do. Different work,” he added. “He has great vision for Sevendor village. Unfortunately, that vision seems to require an awful lot of footwork from me, too.”
“So why did the Magelord go to the capital?” Dara asked in a friendly way.
“The Duke called him to speak at the Coronet Council – that’s the meeting between all five Dukes. They only happen every few years. But Duke Rard wanted him to speak before the council about the goblin invasion. And he’s having some sort of convention among the top-level magi, while he’s there. Court wizards and warmagi and such. He even took his apprentices . . . meanwhile I’m stuck here!”
“I’m sure they’re having a horrible time,” Dara suggested to the funny-looking mage with another giggle.
“Yes, choking on all of that rich food, being tortured by the finest musicians in the land, forced to dance with the fairest maids in the Duchy and make merry until all hours of the night . . .” grumbled Gareth. “I hope Tyndal and Rondal are miserable!”
Dara barely knew the Spellmonger’s apprentices by sight, but apparently Gareth had a relationship with them that included a small bit of resentment and good-natured jealousy.
“Well, look at all of the fun they miss out by not planning the Magic Fair,” she said, taking his arm the way she’d seen her sister do to young men she walked with. It felt awkward, but it made her feel a bit more grown up. Gareth seemed surprised, but did not shy away from walking that way.
“Yes, not overseeing the sanitation requirements of an additional few thousand people is certain to gnaw at their souls,” Gareth said, sarcastically. “I’ve been toiling for weeks on the fair, and do you know what responsibilities those two layabouts got? Building warding spells on the slopes of Matten’s Helm for the contest! I have half a mind to—”
The wizard was interrupted as a commotion broke out near the center of the market when a horseman entered the dirt square at full gallop. Before the dust had even begun to settle around the man he was off his horse and shouting.
“The Warbird approaches!” the man managed, between heaving breaths. “To arms! I was riding south from Sendaria town when my way was blocked by a party barring me from Sevendor. They wore the Warbird’s livery, and said that no traffic would pass until the valley was once again under the Warbird’s control! I slipped by them, but they gave chase in a most warlike fashion. Worse, when I was coming through the low pass, Master Olmeg was being set upon by warriors – bandits, by their clothing, but they moved with assuredness of soldiers, not thieves! He slew two of them before he fell under their blows and would have died, had not our guards driven them off. The captain of the gate bid me deliver the message to arm to Sevendor!”
A thousand questions were volleyed at the poor rider in the next few seconds, and several men of importance beat their way through the crowd to hear a more complete tale. Important men, Dara noted: Yeoman Jurlor, her uncle, the yeoman from Gurisham, and – to her dismay – the tall form of Railan the Steady, Yeoman of Genly, was also crowded around the messenger. The man did his best to answer as best he could, but the cacophony was too much for him.
Suddenly a loud voice pierced the noise.
“BIDE!” it bellowed . . . and Railan the Steady was no longer the tallest man in the crowd. The impressive form of Sir Cei, Sevendor castle’s Castellan, strode through the press of humanity wearing a long chain hauberk and his sword belted at his side. The tall man surveyed the crowd with his steely eyes, bidding them all to be silent with a glance, and then bent to hear the messenger’s tale for himself.
Dara could not hear what was being said, but she and Gareth exchanged several worried glances.
“Do you think it’s real?”
“They beat Master Olmeg!” the young mage snarled. “He’s the nicest mage I know! It’s real now!”
Dara was surprised at how upset the young man was getting – Gareth seemed like the gentlest of souls. It was hard for her to imagine him ever wanting to be a warmage . . . until now. The look on his face was pure hatred and contempt. It shocked Dara that her friend could change his visage so easily.
Sir Cei listened with rapt attention to the messenger’s story before he straightened. “We have been attacked,” he pronounced.
“Just as I said we would be, if we continued this madness!” Railan the Steady insisted loudly, as he looked to Jurlor and his fellow yeomen for support. They were the ones responsible for organizing the common folk in the defense of the domain. If Sevendor did not have the support of its Yeomen it would be hard to mount a defense, Dara realized.
“It is not your place to dictate policy to the Magelord,” Sir Cei said, smoothly. “The crisis has found us, it is our lot to contend with it. Right or wrong the domain is under threat. I shall bear news of this to our lady and learn her mind on it,” he said, grimly.
“You would allow the defense of the domain to be determined by a woman?” Railan asked, scornfully.
“The defense of the domain will be determined by its rightful lord – and Lady Alya is seated in that position, at the moment. I serve her faithfully,” he added, darkly. “I would take offense at any sworn man who did not share my devotion.”
“We sit on the edge of ruin and you—” Railan continued, again looking to Jurlor for assistance.
“Oh, shut up, Railan!” Jurlor, the ugly old yeoman of Jurlor’s Hold, spat. “Olmeg’s been beat and our folk attacked. Just like the last time he started trouble. You want to give Brestal back to him, do you, and hope he’ll leave us alone?” demanded the man.
“Uh, oh!” Dara whispered.
“What?” Gareth whispered back.
“Railan is well-respected in Sevendor,” admitted Dara of the Yeoman, “but not nearly as respected as Jurlor. Especially now that Railan was sent to run Genly, and Jurlor has prospered so much. Jurlor is known for his good sense, just as Railan is known for his stubbornness. If Jurlor is in favor of arming . . .”
“Why wouldn’t he be?” Gareth asked, confused. “Aren’t they obligated to by oath?”
“It happens, I hear,” Dara said, repeating news she’d heard from her m
ore-traveled cousins and uncles. “In fact, it happened here, the last time the Warbird raided the vales. Sevendor and Genly and Gurisham rose to the defense, but Farant’s Hold and Southridge both barred their gates and did not. Usually the victors will be more inclined to bargain with holdouts like that, instead of punishing them.”
“Wouldn’t they only do that if they were certain which side will win?”
“Which Farant and Southridge apparently did, last time around. Far too cozy with Sir Erantal. But—”
“Wait!” Gareth said, harshly. “Sir Cei is speaking!”
The big knight took a single step up on top of a trestle table, and while the thing did not look happy about the weight of the armored knight, it did not collapse. Sir Cei cleared his throat and addressed the few hundred people in the market.
“It appears that Sire Gimbal, the Warbird of West Fleria, has taken affront to the justice of losing Brestal. He has mustered troops and sent raiders against us. I can only guess that further indignities will follow. While I have yet to learn our lady’s mind on this matter, in my experience of her it is unlikely she will allow such a blow to go unanswered.
“Therefore I invite each of you to make whatever purchases you have left and return home – for on the morrow it is likely we will face a banner call. Remain calm. Go home, then, and take up your arms and your station.”
The cry “To arms!” and “Sevendor!” was quickly taken up and spread like a wild fire through the crowd. Soon the market was emptying as folk hurried off with the news, or to find their family or neighbors to tell before the rush to the manor hall armories.
Dara felt dizzy as she stumbled her way through the crowd. She was fortunate that Gareth was escorting her, for a few times she nearly fell. But soon the young mage was depositing back in front of the Westwood’s booth, a grim expression on his face.
Hawkmaiden Page 19
