Hawkmaiden (14 page)

Dara was secretly pleased until her sister pointed out that Dara, herself, was in just as much danger of an incident as she was.

Her father snorted.  “She’s got a figure like a boy and hasn’t even had her monthlies, yet, Flame knows.  I’d be more worried about Kyre attracting attention.”

While the explanation stung, Dara couldn’t argue with it.  Compared to her pretty sister, with her big dark eyes and her gorgeous long dark hair, Dara felt like a weed growing in a flower garden, sometimes.  But that was just because she hadn’t finished growing yet, she consoled herself.  She remembered how scrawny her sister had been just a few years before, and knew that curves and an obsessive interest in the doings of boys was inevitable.

After her sister’s tantrum subsided, she appeared at the door of Dara’s room and uncharacteristically offered to help her prepare for the event.

“Why would you help me?” Dara demanded, placing Frightful on her block, away from Lista.  The bird had a tendency to get protective, when Dara was upset, and the last thing she needed was to explain to her mother how her pretty sister’s face had been wrecked by her falcon’s talons.

“Because they won’t let me go, and I want to hear about everything that happens,” she admitted, avoiding her usual set of manipulative falsehoods.  They wouldn’t have worked with Dara, anyway.  She was far too used to her ways to fall for flattery and simple persuasion.  “Besides, if I don’t help you, someone might mistake you for one of the boys.”

“Hey!” Dara protested.

“I’m serious!  You run around in breaches and tunic all the time – I think I’ve seen you in a gown once, since you turned ten!”

“Well, I do a lot outside,” Dara shot back.  “Dresses aren’t really helpful for that!”

“Which is why I want to help you,” pointed out Linta.  “By the Flame, I just want to see you represent the Hall well.  And yourself.”

Dara couldn’t help herself – her mouth seemed to move without thinking.  “Since when have you ever cared at all about me?” she demanded, and immediately regretted it.  Her sister did not get upset, to Dara’s surprise.  Instead she looked at her with a very serious aspect.

“I know it may seem that way,” she admitted, “but things are . . . different, now.  Everything has changed since the Spellmonger came.  Our whole lives have changed in the last few months.”

Dara glanced at Frightful.  She couldn’t really argue that.

“So?  It’s change.  It happens.  It still doesn’t explain—”

Now her sister was irritated.  “Flame and ash!  You do make things difficult, don’t you?  I do care about you, Little Bird, and I I haven’t shown it much in the past, it’s because you were a little girl.  Well, you’re not a little girl anymore, and either am I.  You and I want different things, so there’s no need to compete. 

“Father was right to send you to the castle.  Kyre won’t notice or remember any of the important things, so he’s useless.  You will.  I need you to tell me who is who and what they were wearing,   Who is important and who is not.  What our new lady looks like, and what kind of woman she is.  The
important
things,” she repeated, stressing the word.

“We’ve got a new lord and lady, an invasion of all these Wilderlanders, the possibility of fighting with West Fleria looming, and you want to know what everyone was
wearing?”

“And their
hair,”
her sister added, with the utmost gravity.  “You must remember
exactly
how everyone’s hair looks.”

Dara affixed her sister with a steady gaze, and was about to deride her for her shallow and pointless exercise when she stopped herself.

This was the first time – ever, really – that her sister had shown any semblance of kindness or respect toward her.  While it was completely self-serving, she realized, the novelty of the appeal felt good.  Her sister
needed
her.  And had asked her, like an adult.

Things really were changing.  First Kyre and now Linta. Dara realized that her sister’s world had changed far more than hers, really, and she was scared and excited by it.  A few months ago her best hope in life was to marry one of the lads from Sevendor or Gurisham, perhaps as even as far as Southridge Hold or Jurlor’s Hold, estates farther away from the castle.  She had expected to court and marry sometime soon.

But now, with the Magelord making such impressive changes so quickly, that had changed.  The population of marriageable men in the vale had risen, and it was going to rise more.  While Dara didn’t share her sister’s aspirations of a good match and a prosperous holding, she couldn’t fault her for trying to adapt to the new conditions, either – and if it helped her to know what kind of dresses Lady Alya liked, or how she wore her hair, or how many boys there were at the party between the ages of fifteen and seventeen, Dara could help with that.

Besides, feasts like this were where being a girl became really important, and Dara had to admit that she had never done well at the grooming and wardrobe, while her pretty sister had excelled in the practical exercise of femininity.  Dara could use the help.

“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.