Sky Rider

by Terry Mancour

  They called it a day with just a hundred yards of trail left to sculpt before it reached the apex of the knob. The sun was already starting to set behind the western ridge, and Dara knew if they stayed much longer, they’d have to descend the trail by magelight. Not that she was afraid of twisting an ankle, anymore. Much of the path from that point to the crest of the knob was already wide enough, and it wouldn’t take much work to put it into shape.

  That, and poor Gareth was trembling with the effort he’d expended. His face was pale and his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat.

  “I’m all right,” he insisted. “I just haven’t done anything that sustained in a long time. It’s harder on you, with irionite, even if it’s easier to do,” he smiled. “But I’m glad I did it. That kind of basic, practical work is invaluable to developing the magical ‘muscles’ a High Mage needs. Of course, I’m starving again.”

  “We can have supper Westwood Hall,” Dara consoled, as she helped him down the steep trail.

  Not trail, Dara realized, a moment later. Road. She’d been so focused on helping Gareth push forward, she’d barely had time to appreciate the results of their work. As she and Gareth descended the path she was amazed at how closely it resembled an actual road. There were still plenty of places that would require further repair with a strong back and a spade, but apart from some trouble spots Dara could envision a full four-wheeled oxen-drawn wagon ascending the road.

  “We did good work, today,” Gareth agreed, when she mentioned the progress. “Tomorrow, I’ll have a few fellows I know come up and finish the road and begin looking over the site at the top of the knob. They’ll be able to find the best possible place to build your mews.”

  “Who?” Dara asked, curious. “I thought everyone was getting ready for plowing.” That was where much of Sevendor’s collective efforts were focused, right now. Getting the fields turned and the crops sown for the year. Only artisans and skilled laborers passed up the opportunity to make money helping out the various manors and estates this time of year.

  “A crew of Karshak,” he explained. “They don’t really go in for plowing. Not the ones who do the stonework, at least. I have a friend in their lodge who oversees the woodwork – scaffolding, tools, braces, that sort of thing. Until the main tunnel into Rundeval is opened up, he and his fellows don’t have a lot to do. They’ll be interested in a little day-work . . . if it pays well enough.”

  “Karshak?” Dara asked, surprised. Master Minalan had hired an entire lodge of the strange, short non-humans to excavate into the heart of Rundeval, turning the mountain into a giant fortress capable of withstanding dragon attack. The project would not be complete until she was a grown woman, Dara knew, even with magic’s aid. The sturdy masons had become a frequent sight in the streets and market of Sevendor, and had their camp behind the castle.

  “Yeah, Rumel is a solid fellow,” Gareth continued, as they came to the lower switchback. They were making excellent time along the road they’d spent the day building. “He and his crew are from a kind of . . . common Karshak clan. They’re only allowed to work in wood, by tradition, so they don’t have a lot to do on the castle, yet. You . . . you can pay them, can’t you?” he asked, suddenly.

  “Certainly!” Dara insisted. “I have a lot of coin from Barrowbell. They were very generous in rewarding the Hawkmaiden,” she added, a little self-consciously. “More than enough to pay for this mews. That’s why I’m so angry about my father,” she reminded him. “He thought the coin would be better spent on my dowry.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t want to marry a peasant lad and not have enough left over after the ceremony to buy a couple of goats,” he chuckled. “You do realize that, even as a common spellmonger, you won’t ever have to milk a goat, unless you want to?”

  Dara nodded. She knew that a decent spellmonger was often one of the wealthier artisans in a village. Like a barber or a jeweler, it was a highly specialized trade in which credentialed professionals could charge a premium. “Even a falconer would make enough to avoid the peasantry,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “I’m both – what is he thinking?” she asked, incredulously.

  “That you’re going to go boy-crazy, one of these days,” Gareth offered, shyly.

  Dara snorted. “I’ve been too close to Tyndal and Rondal after they’ve gotten back from swordplay practice – why would any girl want to inflict that smell on herself for the rest of her life?”

  “You make a compelling point,” Gareth chuckled. “Still, I’m sure he only wants the best for you . . .”

  “The best as he sees it!” Dara fumed. “I am not my sisters! Father has no conception of what my life is actually like . . . flame and ash, I’ve been living at the castle for almost a year, now, and he’s been up to see me but thrice? He only sees things in terms of accounts and livestock,” she said, bitterly. “Daughters are hard workers until they get married off, and then they’re useless until they start making grandchildren!”

  “That’s not such a bad life,” Gareth offered, hesitantly.

  “It’s a boring life!” Dara squeaked. “Compared to being a mage? Or even a falconer? Flame and ash! My life is mine to decide. You won’t catch me as just another peasant wife on some muddy farm, trying to keep my brats from playing with the goats while I milk them before try to get a crop of peas harvested from the garden!” she assured him, miserably.

  “Most goodwives don’t actually talk to their goats while they’re milking them,” Gareth said, dryly. “At least, not and expect them to answer.”

  “They should, they’d likely get more cooperation,” Dara observed. “How can he even think that I’d consider that kind of life, after being the Spellmonger’s apprentice?”

  “Dara, in his defense, he’s only had a couple of years to get used to the idea of a magelord as his master, much less his daughter being one of his apprentices. To his mind he still has the same dreams for you that he had when you were a baby.”

  “You’re probably right,” Dara said, feeling some of her anger deflate as she considered the wisdom of Gareth’s words. “He does still associate me with my mother. She died when I was born,” Dara reported, quietly. “Sometimes I think he doesn’t see even see me when he looks at me. Not Lenodara of Westwood, or the Spellmonger’s Apprentice, or even the Hawkmaiden. Just her.”

  Gareth had the good grace to say nothing. The arm that she had across his shoulders to help him down the trail suddenly became something else, as it pulled her into an unexpected – but not unwelcome – embrace.

  “Dara,” Gareth sighed in her ear. “He’s the only one in the world that sees anyone but you when they look at you. Don’t blame him for that. He’ll catch up, eventually.”

  ***

  Supper that night at Westwood Hall was tense, from the moment Gareth and Dara came in and washed their hands in the basin.

  “Dara!” her cousin Kam called out to her, when he lined up behind them. “And with a guest! Is that Master Gareth, under all of that dirt?” he asked, peering at the wizard with exaggerated discernment.

  “Gareth? And Dara? Covered in dirt?” asked her brother, Kobb. “Dear Flame that warms us, what have you two been up to?” he asked mockingly, a disgusting leer spreading across his attempt to grow a beard.

  “Clearing a path up to the knob,” Gareth said, evenly as he dried his hands. “We’ve been at it all day.”

  “Wait, the knob?” her uncle Kamal asked, appearing suddenly at Dara’s elbow. He poured a mug of ale from the big earthenware pitcher while he stared thoughtfully at his niece. “I thought we had discussed that plan, Dara.”

  “I believe we did,” Dara agreed, coolly, as she wiped her hands dry with a woolen towel. “I went ahead and got an early start on the project with my friend Gareth’s help.”

  “Dara,” her uncle said, sternly, “your father is not going to be happy about that. He told you that he wasn’t going to build a mews up there,” he said, reprovingly. “I thought that was settled.”
<
br />   “It appears that we have a difference in perspective about what was settled,” Dara countered, bravely. “I require a mews be built in the Westwood to my specifications. The Master of the Wood had objections based on cost and convenience. I chose to overrule them and proceed with construction.”

  “Dara,” Kamal warned, “quit fooling around with this nonsense and obey your father. No one from the estate will work on this by his order.”

  “I am aware of that,” she snapped, losing her patience after such a long, hard day. “As he was unwilling to assign a crew to begin, I brought in Gareth to help with the preliminaries. We’ve nearly completed roughing in the roadway, today,” she boasted. “With magic.”

  Gareth, the Flame warm him, did his best to look competent.

  Dara hated the fact that it was her uncle, to whom she’d always been close, who had to bear the brunt of her ire. Kamal had not set the policy, he had only agreed with it.

  “We told you that we could not afford that,” he said, with quiet patience. The bulk of the estate’s workers were filing in for the evening meal. Not a few stared at the confrontation between Dara and her uncle.

  “The manor could not. I can,” Dara said, defiantly. “Work on the road began today. It will continue tomorrow. As will construction on the new mews,” she added. “At my expense, not the estate’s.”

  “With respect, you are not in control of that money, Dara,” Uncle Kamal said, his tanned brow furrowed with concern. “Your father is.”

  “With respect, Uncle,” Dara said, hotly, “I will use that coin as I see fit. It is mine, by law and custom, given to my sire in trust,” she emphasized.

  “Until you come of age, Dara!”

  “I am old enough to fight dragons,” she reminded him. “I think I’m old enough to spend my own money. I, not my father, am the only one who can spend it,” she declared.

  “Dara,” Kamal said, warningly, looking back and forth between the magi. “Your father is not going to be happy about this.”

  “Unhappy enough to rebel?” she challenged. “If not, then he can stand aside and allow me to proceed. Now, my guest and I will be sitting at the High Table, as is our right. Or has the rite of hospitality fled this hall, too?” she asked, her emotions taking over her words.

  Instead of responding, her uncle Kamal stiffened. Then he bowed deferentially, and ushered Dara to the coveted table nearest the Flame. With a glance, a couple of kitchen drudges brought them trenchers and a single silver goblet to share. It was the same ancient vessel that her father had offered Master Minalan when he and Alya first visited the hall. A prized heirloom of the hall, reserved only for the most special of occasions. Her uncle was mocking her.

  “Wine, for the lady and her guest,” Uncle Kamal said, through clenched teeth. “Dinner will be served in a moment. Pray let me know if there is anything else you desire,” he growled, and stalked back toward the kitchen. He was angry.

  Dara’s heart sank. She and her Uncle Kamal had always had a special relationship. She felt like bursting into tears, seeing how poorly she treated him in front of the Flame.

  Yet the burning she felt in her face made her keep her peace. She knew she was right, and Kamal and her father were wrong. She was asserting her lawful rights and incurring no expense to the estate in doing so. As much as she despaired at the idea of hurting the man who had been as much a father to her as her own, she knew that changing her course would be disastrous. Everyone in the hall was staring at her like she had two heads, but she dare not back down from her position.

  “Dara? Are you going to be okay?” Gareth whispered, when the drudges went to fetch the porridge course with exceeding deference.

  “No, no I’m not!” Dara whispered back, her head whirling, as she stared at the cup. “This is the only silver cup the hall owns,” she explained. “It’s only used when the Spellmonger or some other important noble visits!”

  “Oh,” Gareth nodded. “Your uncle is being a—”

  “Gareth!” Dara said, alarmed. “You can’t use that kind of language in front of the Flame!”

  “What?”

  “Manor custom,” Dara explained, keeping her voice low. “It’s been so since the Westwoodmen came to the Westwood. No profane speech in front of the Flame. No disrespectful behavior. And no falsehoods. Better to keep mute than utter a lie in front of the Flame.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Gareth said, solemnly. “You have the prettiest eyes,” he said, feigning a compulsion.

  “Gareth!” Dara moaned. “This is not the place nor the time for jests!”

  “All right, all right,” he soothed, as the drudges brought bowls of hot porridge – the good crockery, she noted, not the chipped earthenware she was used to. The spoons were pewter, too, and not wood or horn. “I’ve been a lot of different domains with such customs. I’ll not defy them.”

  “How many places have you been?” Dara asked, curious, as she dug into the porridge. Barley and onions cooked in chicken broth, with plenty of salt. Thick cubes of bread floated in the top of it, competing with the barley for the broth.

  “Oh, seven or eight,” Gareth sighed, as he recalled. “Most since I was at Inrion Academy. A lot of manors have particular customs like your Flame. The key is knowing them. Like the Tarmen estate I stayed at, before I went to the War College at Relan Cor,” he said, between hungry bites. “The custom was to salute the gods and then the lord of the manor by sprinkling a little rosewater on first the idols, and then a particular stone that, for no particular reason I could see, represented the sovereign authority of the lord of Tarmen. To fail to do so was considered a horrible insult. Guess who failed to do so?” he asked, rolling his eyes.

  “The Flame is akin to the Narasi goddess of fire, Briga,” Dara nodded. “I suppose it’s kind of superstitious, to think our fireplace has any particular control over the rest of the universe,” she said, glancing at the crackling fire that had been in continuous blaze since long before she was born. She’d learned so much about the world, since she’d become a wizard’s apprentice, that it seemed foolish to think a mere fire was important for anything but heating the hall.

  “Oh, no, those social customs are quite important,” Gareth countered as he finished his bowl. “They keep our families united, generation after generation. Often in the face of tragedy and sorrow. Perhaps if my family had such strong customs, I wouldn’t have felt compelled to leave it so early.”

  “What was wrong with your family?” Dara prodded. It occurred to her that she didn’t know that much about her friend, before he came to Sevendor.

  “Oh, nothing in particular,” he considered. “They just weren’t prepared to contend with suddenly having a mage amongst them.”

  “I don’t think any family is, really,” Dara said, glancing around at the full hall. No one else was sitting at the high table, she noted. Her uncle and aunt had taken seats at the second table, leaving the broad, ornate high table for her and Gareth alone. Another dig from Uncle Kamal.

  “I think you’re right,” Gareth nodded, as a drudge cleared away his bowl and returned a moment later with a small meat pie. “We begin our lives estranged from our families by our Talent, and then spend the rest of it on the margins of society, trying not to annoy our neighbors. I think that’s the best thing about what Master Minalan has done with Sevendor: given the magi a place to feel . . . included.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Dara conceded. “Honestly, I just felt like an annoyance, until my Talent emerged. Then I felt like I’d done something wrong.”

  “And now you’re a noblewoman dining at the high board,” Gareth said, cheerfully, as he took a sip from the silver cup.

  “And I still feel like I’ve done something wrong!” Dara insisted in a whisper. “My father still doesn’t know what to do with me,” she observed. “I’m still causing trouble for the estate. Before Master Min came, I was an annoying Little Bird. Now, I’m an annoying Hawkmaid! Does he think I asked for my rajira
?” she demanded.

  “Of course not,” Gareth sighed. “Nor did he ask for a girl who risked her life climbing a mountain to retrieve a falcon chick,” he pointed out. “He’s doing the best he can under dramatically changing circumstances. That’s going to challenge the best of men.”

  “You’re taking his side?” Dara asked, aghast.

  “Not at all,” Gareth replied, reasonably. “You are in the right, in this instance. But wisdom dictates that the wizard understand the situation as completely as possible, and that includes the thoughts and feelings of those involved. By considering things from your father’s perspective, you might find areas where you agree. Or areas of leverage you can exploit. But without understanding, you’re merely reacting,” he observed as one of her cousins delivered two savory-looking pies to them. “Any idiot can do that.”

  They spent the rest of the meal making plans for the morning, with Gareth making a list of supplies he’d need to finish the road and begin on the mews. The Karshak would do most of the construction themselves, he informed her, at least the complicated framing. Gareth also knew of a work crew that could come up in a week and start building the wattle between the great wooden timbers, and daubing it with cob – a mixture of straw and claw, fixed with limestone. With magic’s aid and no further problems, he declared, the new mews could be ready for habitation as soon as Midsummer.

  “If your father permits it,” he added.

  “I don’t make plans unless I intend to see them through,” Dara said, quietly, as she finished her pie. “It wouldn’t reflect well on me, professionally. After all, isn’t that the thaumaturgical basis of ‘intent’?”

  Chapter Nine

  The Castle Folk

  “What is the meaning of this?” Kamen, Master of the Westwood, demanded angrily, waving a sheaf of parchment around like a sword.

  His bearded face was red from the effort of climbing the new road up to the knob, as much as it was from anger, Dara figured. But the anger was enough to halt work at the crest of the great shoulder of snowstone. All four Karshak stopped their measuring and stood in the midst of the neatly-placed stakes and strings and stared at him; Gareth ceased work on the spells he was casting at the interruption.