Sky Rider

by Terry Mancour

  Her planning and plotting had led Dara to a resolution, one she knew for a fact that her father would have strongly disapproved of. If he would not release her money to her to build the mews, she would find someplace else to get it. After she was done with her dinner, she would have to indulge in one thing that everyone in the Westwood avoided like the pox: she was going to go into debt.

  It wasn’t an unusual thing to do, for a project as large as the mews. Many a peasant went into debt to his manor to secure funds for building his cottage, hiring farmhands, and renting or purchasing a plow. Alas, such bargains too often led to the unfortunate peasants being unable to pay back their loans. When that happened, they lost some of their liberty and became villeins: bondsmen to the manor. They owed service as interest on their debts. If left unattended too long, they found themselves all but slaves to the debt, something the Westwoodmen refused to do. Indeed, her father and uncle were horrified at the idea of owing money to “foreigners”. The Westwood paid for what they needed with coin, or they did without.

  But Dara wasn’t buying a cottage, a field, and a couple of cows; she was a noblewoman on a mission for her master. While her father might not be terribly impressed by her title, there were others in Sevendor who were. Others with money.

  Banamor was now mayor of Sevendor’s growing precincts, but he was also in business. Indeed, from what Dara could tell, he had a hand in just about every business venture in Sevendor. Unlike the normal picture of the greedy burgher, however, Banamor was always keen to promote Sevendor’s general prosperity, not merely accumulate as much coin for himself as he could.

  But he didn’t mind loaning money, she knew. Nor were his terms too stiff. She was hoping that he could be persuaded to extend her a loan until she worked things out with her father.

  “So what can I do for the Hawkmaiden of Sevendor, today?” the former footwizard asked, when she’d appeared at his shop after dinner.

  “I need to borrow some money,” she began with a sigh.

  “Certainly,” Banamor nodded. “How much do you need?”

  “What?” Dara asked, surprised.

  “How much coin do you need?” Banamor asked, as he began rummaging around on the broad table that served as his desk.

  “I . . . I think . . . maybe two hundred ounces of silver?” she offered. That was slightly more than she’d budgeted for, but then she was aware of just how quickly unforeseen expenses could arise. “If you could . . .”

  “Of course I can,” the wizard chuckled. “Two hundred silver? I’ve got that much here. When do you want to repay it?” he asked, matter-of-factly.

  “Within . . . six months?” she guessed, not knowing just how or when her spat with her father would allow her access to her treasury. But surely by then the mews would be built, and Master Minalan would repay her.

  “Let’s make it a year,” Banamor shrugged. “If you pay it back within six months, I won’t even charge you interest,” he said, finding an ink pot, quill, and blank piece of parchment.

  “Thank you,” Dara said, her head swimming. “Uh, I didn’t think borrowing money was this easy. You didn’t even ask me what it was for.”

  “It’s not, usually,” Banamor admitted. “But you are Minalan’s apprentice. And I’m assuming you have a good purpose. I doubt it will be to purchase a new dress – or an entire wardrobe of them, with two hundred ounces of silver. You’re a thoughtful girl. I trust you have a good reason for so much.”

  “I’m building a mews,” she reported.

  “See? A good purpose. What better purpose for money to the Hawkmaiden?” he asked himself. “Two hundred . . . Lenodara of Westwood . . . payable in a year,” he finished, signing his name to the note with a flourish. “No interest if paid in six months,” he added. “Not the usual way I make money . . .”

  “Why are you being so . . . generous?” she asked as he shoved the parchment to her for her signature. She carefully wrote it out at the bottom, next to his.

  “A few reasons,” the business-minded mage admitted, watching her sign. “Firstly, because you are Minalan’s apprentice, and I owe him a great debt for allowing me to come to Sevendor. Secondly,” he said, ticking off one of his fingers, “because you’re a very serious girl who fights dragons and such, and I doubt you’ll be frivolous with it. And thirdly, because after the Spellmonger and Sire Cei you are the leading noble of Sevendor. And as I expect you will only grow in your power and influence here, I want you to owe me a few favors,” he explained.

  “You want me to owe you favors?” she scoffed. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because you’re just an apprentice, now,” he reasoned. “You won’t be forever. Someday Min will give you position and power, and when you have that, I want you to owe me a few favors. It’s always good for the nobility to owe you a few favors,” he told her.

  “What happens if I don’t pay you back?” she asked, as she returned the sheet of parchment to him. Banamor dried the ink with a quick spell while he read it, and then nodded, satisfied.

  “Then I take you to court,” he shrugged. “But I doubt it will get that far. Minalan and I are business partners. I can always take it out of his share of the profits and let him settle up with you, himself.”

  Dara tried not to think about how awkward that situation might be – the last thing she needed was Master Minalan angry at her. It was bad enough that her father was.

  And this would only make him angrier, she realized, on the way back to the castle, a fat pouch of silver coins weighing heavily on her belt. Once Kamen found out that she’d borrowed the money not just from a foreigner, but from a wizard, he would be furious. Westwoodmen just didn’t borrow money from strangers.

  But then, she wasn’t really a proper Westwoodman, anymore, she realized. She was more Castle Folk than Wood Folk, now. That made her a little sad, but it also made her more resolute to see her task done.

  After she walked back to the castle, she called Cinder from the pack of hounds in the courtyard and went up to her room, after scratching the puppy thoroughly. It was early, yet, but she was still exhausted. A full belly and a long walk had calmed her temper, however, and she was able to approach her problems with a clearer head. Once she was satisfied with what she could do to overcome her own obstacles, she took the time for some self-reflection before she went to sleep.

  That was an important thing for a wizard to do, she knew. Without understanding your own emotional state, it was difficult to focus your thoughts well enough to do magic. Dara had learned exercises to examine her feelings and thoughts in detail, to test them against reality and determine if she was indulging in self-deception. That was a common trap for a wizard, she also knew. A mage could get entangled in their own misconceptions. That rarely led to anything good.

  The thing that bothered her most about the situation with her father wasn’t his stubborn refusal to help her, she realized . . . it was the fact that she no longer really belonged at Westwood Hall. Despite being “Lady Lenodara of Westwood”, she was starting to think she should call herself “Lady Lenodara from Westwood” . . . because she no longer felt at home in the one place she should.

  That was what was bothering her. Arguing with her uncle in front of the Flame, arguing with her father on the knob, the attitude of her brothers and sisters toward her recent elevation to nobility, they all served to put a barrier between her and her family as deep as the chasm that warded the Westwood. The place she had always considered a refuge – “home,” in the most fundamental sense, was no longer welcoming her, and she felt it keenly.

  Her family was somehow different, now. No, Dara corrected, they were still largely the same as they’d always been . . . it was she who was different. Not just because of magic, although that was the excuse. Dara had seen and learned things that were so beyond the experience of, say, her sister or her father that it was getting more and more difficult to find the common things they used to share. Knowing that all of humanity’s tenure on Callidore was bo
th recent and possibly temporary made her father’s concerns about the manor’s accounts seem completely silly, now.

  But to him, she knew, they were the measure of how well he was managing the estate. That was incredibly important . . . to him. Once it had been important to Dara, too. She remembered how proud she was of contributing to the estate’s treasury by selling the skins of Frightful’s kills in Sevendor’s marketplace.

  That was two years ago. A lifetime ago. Now, she was far more concerned about the war, the Alka Alon, and the giant hawk project to place such importance on that sort of thing. Yet to Kamen of Westwood, Master of the Wood, little had changed. He was still in charge of the welfare of the Westwoodmen and bore the responsibility for their prosperity. Goblins and dragons and giant hawks were only going to be important to him if they affected that responsibility. Just as Sir Ryff was devoted to the cult of chivalry and the honors of knighthood, Kamen of Westwood was devoted to seeing the Flame ever fed and his people never going hungry.

  What am I responsible for? Dara wondered, before she fell asleep. Frightful, certainly, as well as Cinder and Lumpy. Learning her lessons, of course, and perfecting her command of magic. Keeping her master happy with her progress and completing his orders faithfully, she decided. That was what she was responsible for, at the moment.

  And those orders included building a mews. However she could manage it.

  Gareth’s assistance had been invaluable, both in creating the road to the site and then leveling and flattening it until it was buildable. Rumel had been exceedingly helpful in smoothing out her designs and turning it into an actual plan. Once the cornerstones were laid, he and his crew could begin assembling the timber frame of the structure.

  But before that she had to secure the lumber needed for that, as well as arrange for the place to be walled with wattle-and-daub, roofed, and furnished . . . all before winter arrived. That was her most pressing responsibility. That it conflicted with the desires of the Master of the Wood was unfortunate, but it did not change her responsibility. And, by the Flame a Westwoodman did not shirk from their responsibilities, they embraced them.

  Her father had taught her that.

  Just before sleep came, Dara realized that the only place she really felt at home these days was right here, in her tower room, with her puppy and her bird. The Castle Folk, as her people called them, were very different from the Westwoodmen, but those differences were part of what allowed Dara to fit in to the place. The business of the castle was much different than the business of the Westwood. The people were more worldly, and had far larger concerns than the next crop of peas or how much walnuts sold for at market.

  As one of the Castle Folk, now, Dara had to leave the concerns of the Westwood behind her. It was a painful realization – she’d always imagined Westwood Hall as “home” – but it was the truth, she knew. She was no longer a true Westwoodman, and that hurt.

  But she was still a wizard, she consoled herself. A High Mage, her witchstone fairly won. She was still apprenticed to the Magelord, and still a falconer. No matter what her family thought about it, they could not change that. They would have to accept it. They would have to accept her as she was, not how they imagined her to be. She wasn’t a Little Bird, anymore, she was the Hawkmaiden. As uncomfortable as that was for both, that was the reality.

  Nor could she change them, she realized. She might be able to get them to accept her again, in some capacity, but there was nothing she could do that she could see that would alter the provincial attitude of her family. They might accept being ruled by a wizard, but having one of their own practice the arcane arts in the middle of Westwood Hall was just too much to ask them to contend with.

  What would her father say, if he was told the world wasn’t flat, when he could plainly see it was flat with his own eyes? What would her uncle Kamal say if she told him that there was a little green moon in the sky, when he’d never seen it for himself? What would her brother Kobb say about her century-old friend Astalia walking around naked all the time?

  They were simple men with simple responsibilities, she realized. Their imaginations were not open to such things, nor their importance. Trying to drag them into her world would not enrich them, it would frighten them.

  Being a wizard was a lot lonelier than she’d expected.

  Chapter Ten

  The Chasm

  “That’s more like it!” Ithalia said with a note of satisfaction, as Frightful’s transformation was complete. Dara was astonished -- her falcon’s wings were now nearly twenty feet wide, tip-to-tip, and she took up nearly half of the highland meadow behind Rundeval they were using for the test. “My grandmother suggested if we strengthen the breastbone and surrounding muscle tissue, she would have an easier time moving her wings in flight.”

  “She looks ready to fly!” Dara agreed, excitedly, as she felt a wave of predatory confidence wash over Frightful through their connection. “Shall I send her aloft?”

  “Keep her over the meadow, for now,” Ithalia warned. “I don’t want anyone to see her, if we can help it.”

  Dara frowned. “I thought the council approved the use of transgenic enchantment, now?” she asked, confused.

  “They did,” Ithalia admitted. “Technically. But they were thinking about Alka Alon taking larger, human-based forms, not transforming vicious predators into flying war monsters,” she pointed out. “While this experiment is technically permitted, it isn’t exactly approved. There are those on the Alkan Council who would strongly disapprove, if they knew what we were doing. Particularly if they knew my grandmother was involved in any way,” she added, biting her lip. “She’s not well-loved by the Council.”

  “So . . . we’re still being naughty,” Dara nodded, both anxious and excited by the prospect. “Which is why we haven’t included Master Minalan on our results, yet.”

  “I think it would be best if we presented a completed project,” Ithalia said, thoughtfully. “Not an experiment-in-progress. Besides, if he knows what we’re doing, he’ll want to help,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Your master is a wizard of keen intelligence and great wisdom, Dara, but he has a tendency to . . . fuss with things, too. Particularly magic he doesn’t understand.”

  Dara didn’t reply, simply because she was Minalan’s apprentice and while it was permitted to gripe about your master to a fellow apprentice, complaining to anyone else was disloyal. Ithalia was right, Dara knew: Minalan loved to meddle in strange magic. While that could be helpful, she conceded, it could also complicate the relatively straightforward effort she and Ithalia had made.

  “I’ll take her up for a bit,” Dara said, changing the subject. “Let’s see if those big new wings work.”

  Frightful didn’t hesitate to beat the air with her wings at Dara’s mental prodding. The giant falcon crouched and sprung into the air, the rush of wind from her wings sending Dara’s hair into her face. Frightful climbed at Dara’s direction until she was nearly level with Rundeval’s peak, just over the castle. Instead of sending her north, over the vale, Dara sent her sailing over the uninhabited ridges to the south where few would be able to see her.

  “She’s much stronger, this time,” Dara reported, translating the pure emotional experience of her falcon into words. “She feels like a goddess of the wind! She wants to hunt, just to see how large a creature she can eat!”

  “One step at a time!” Ithalia giggled. “Or, one flap of the wings at a time,” she corrected. “This is just the intermediary stage. She won’t be able to bear a human rider until her wingspan is at least twenty-five feet, according to my grandmother’s calculations. She’s almost there, but not quite. And then there is the issue of training her to be ridden,” she added. “That’s where you will really have to do some work.”

  “Yes, I haven’t really broken it to Frightful that I plan on riding her,” Dara admitted. “That will be an interesting conversation.”

  The giant falcon reluctantly returned to the meadow at Dara’s bidding, glid
ing to a precise halt where she originated. Dara was thankful she didn’t resort to habit and try to land on her fist -- she would have been crushed if the massive bird had tried. Ithalia sang the enchantment to restore Frightful to normal size, and the two women walked back down the narrow trail toward the Westwood, the falcon back on Dara’s wrist.

  “The next iteration of the spell should take her up to the full, planned size,” Ithalia assured her. “Now that we know the breast muscles are strong enough to bear the additional weight, we can increase that factor of the enchantment and ensure that she’ll be strong enough to bear your weight as well as her own.”

  “When will that be?” Dara asked, curious.

  “No more than a few more days. My grandmother lives rather far from here, and it takes a while to get there and back. I’ve learned so much from this, though, that it’s worth the travel. No one has done transgenics like this for centuries!” she said, enthusiastically. “My grandmother actually worried that importasta species like hawks wouldn’t be as pliable to the enchantment as natavia species, but . . .”

  “She looked pretty damned big to me,” Dara agreed. “Importasta . . . that means that those species originally came from humanity’s homeworld, right?” she asked, cautiously.

  “Yes, those are the ones which your people brought to the Five Duchies,” Ithalia agreed. “We love your trees, but your animals are nearly as fascinating. So much variety! So many unusual means of contending with Nature’s demands! My people had only three or four dozen avian species, for instance, but the humani brought thousands! You domesticate and husband animals like we do trees,” she said, shaking her head. “You use dogs and hawks for hunting, dogs for herding, sheep and llamas for clothing, bees for honey and wax, and oxen and horses to plow and haul. Your people excel at that sort of thing.”

  “As yours excel in magic with a couple of bars of song, while we have to study and memorize to understand the most basic symbolic systems.”