Hawkmaiden (18 page)

“I . . .
what?
” Dara demanded, as the words sunk in.  “Don’t be stupid – I’m no mage!” Dara insisted, desperately. 

“Not yet,” agreed Kyre.  “But it’s possible you have the talent to be one.  Father sent to the castle for someone to help make that determination, but since the road is still covered with snow as far as Gurisham, that might take a few days.”

“Me?  A mage?” Dara asked, her mind swimming.

“It’s
possible,
” her brother stressed.  “
Just
possible.  But you seem to have recovered from the . . . whatever it was.  I need to go tell our aunt – that was my instruction.  I’ll bring you something to eat, if you like.”

Dara realized that she was famished – it had been a couple of days since she had eaten, if what her brother said was correct.  “Yes, that would be lovely.  Thanks, Kyre,” she said, earnestly.  Her older brother gave her a smile and a hug and then went to fetch food.

A mage, eh?
Dara’s mind began considering, after he’d left.  She had little idea what that meant, but the dizziness she felt presaged what a great change that would mean to her life. 
And here I thought climbing a mountain was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. 

Chapter Nine

Wizards Of Sevendor

It was weeks after the snow fell before anyone from the castle came by to check on Dara.  During that time the girl continued to recuperate from her strange experience.  Though she could not fault her physical condition, after a few days, she still experienced dizziness and disorientation at unexpected times.  Dara felt . . . fragile, somehow, though she could not quite put her finger on exactly how.

She was not the only thing that had changed after that fateful night.  The white coloration that had affected every bit of stone, rock, sand and dirt – including the mountain that towered overhead – did not melt away with the snow.  Rundeval had been nearly-black basalt since the Westwoodmen had come here, centuries ago.  Now it was as white as a snowdrift. 

The change was startling, and though there was no less amazement at the transformation in the Hall itself, the white mountain’s magical coloration inspired true awe among the folk of the estate.  The Westwoodmen frequently stared up at the peak and murmured words to the Flame.  Everything in a two-mile radius of the castle, it was said, had been magically transformed this way.

Most saw the startling transformation as a sign – of what, no one precisely knew.  Mostly it was seen as a good omen.  The Westwoodmen were pragmatic folk, and though each of them had seen strange things in the Wood in their lives they were slow to indulge in superstition.

The folk of the vale were less stable in their beliefs.  Word came from market, the first day it was clear enough to hold one, that the folk of Genly hamlet were certain that the Snow That Never Melted was a curse sent against Sevendor by the gods for accepting a wizard as a lord.  Railan the Steady’s yeomanry of Genly was also within the sphere of the spell, and he was not happy with the result.  It was a curse.  He had led a campaign of dark whispers saying as much.  The unexpected blizzard was sent to punish the good folk of Sevendor, he maintained, for the Magelord’s temerity to strike against the belligerent West Flerians.

The Wilderlands folk – the Bovali, Dara reminded herself – had angrily dismissed the rumors and took offense, nearly causing a brawl at market.  They understood the storm to have been called down upon the folk of West Fleria after the Magelord’s victory over the misguided knights who had dueled him.

Dara thought that was just plain silly.  How could the gods find fault with Lord Minalan’s rule, when everyone – including the Genlymen – had prospered under the Spellmonger’s rule?  Lord Minalan had banished evil old Sir Erantal, dismissed his wicked men, had forgiven the debts of the people and had spent coin liberally, instead of extorting labor from the people.  How could the gods find fault with that?

Dara didn’t know much about the gods of the Vale folk, but if they took offense at justice and prosperity, she didn’t see the point of them. 

Of course, another part of her knew, if she really was talented in the arts of magic, then supporting Lord Minalan was just in her best interest.  Yet other than her dizziness and the odd way she saw things now, she didn’t seem to be able to manifest any other abilities.  No lighting shot out of her fingers, and her sister persisted in talking despite Dara’s intense wish that she stop.  If Dara was a mage, she decided after a few days considering the matter, she wasn’t a very good one.  At last she gave up and went back to training Frightful to the lure.

Her falcon was coming through the winter well, her uncle assured her, and once Dara was permitted normal activity again she continued working with her bird over short distances.  By the third day back at work she had her flying from her block at one end of the now-spotless white flagged yard to the other . . . without the line. 

Dara was in the yard when a call came down from the watchtower overhead – visitors were approaching.  That was not unusual, of course, but the nature of the visitor was.  A man in a long robe and a floppy old hat who was there to see Dara.

She thought she recognized the man from Yule, and recalled him completely once he introduced himself.

“I’m Banamor,” he offered in a Riverlands accent, with a small bow, as her uncle joined the two of them in the yard.  “I was asked by the Magelord to inquire after anyone who fell ill the night of the blizzard.  I heard that at least one person here did . . .”

“That was me,” Dara admitted, nodding in the cold as she hooded Frightful.  “Lenodara of Westwood, at your service, my lord,” she said, trying to bow.  It was difficult with a heavy falcon on her wrist.

“I’m not lord,” grunted the man dismissively, “I’m a
mage
.  A footwizard, or at least I was, before I came to Sevendor to take Master Minalan’s service.  Now I’m . . . well, I guess the term will be decided later, but I am one of the Magelord’s retainers, one helping him with magical affairs here.  I am at least enough of a wizard to determine whether you have
rajira
, though probably not a good enough one to tell you how much or what variety – not my specialty.  But if you don’t mind speaking to me for a while . . . preferably somewhere
warm
. . .” he said, as a cold gust blew out of the chasm.

“By the Flame, then, with the Master of the Wood,” her Uncle Keram nodded.  “You have the hospitality of the Hall, Master Banamor.”

“My thanks, Master Keram.  And may I say what a magnificent bird that is?  A Silver Hooded Raptor, if I’m not mistaken?”

“From yon peak, Rundeval,” Dara agreed, nodding toward the mountain.  “It’s not as easy to climb as it looks.”

“As it looks utterly impossible, I’ll take that as a testament of your bravery,” the mage agreed as they went inside.  Uncle Keram called for food and drink for a guest, and her cousins hurried to fetch it and bring it to the before the Flame.

“Now,” Banamor said, when mulled cider and a few cakes had been laid at his elbow, “I have been tasked with seeing just who may have reacted to the unexpected spell the other night . . .”

“Just what happened with that?  If you don’t mind me asking?” Keram asked.

“It was the night of the birth of Minalyan, the Magelord’s son.  There were complications – magical complications, don’t ask me for details – and the Magelord intervened.  The white rock and the wave of nausea that followed was a side-effect of the spell.  But mother and child are doing fine, gods bless them.  A fine baby boy, who seems completely unaware that he turned the world white with his birth cries.”

“So the Snow That Never Melted happened at the birth of the Lord of Sevendor?” Keram asked, with especial interest.

“Well, his son, at least.  A future lord of Sevendor, perhaps.  So it seems,” Banamor agreed.  “It is seen as auspicious, by some—”

“Well, how could it
not
be?” insisted Keram with a grin.  “Such an omen is profound enough, but for it to occur during the birth of the lord of the vale?  That is clearly a sign of favor!”

“I’m a mage, not a priest,” shrugged Banamor.  “I’m far more interested in magic than mysticism.  Now, Lenodara, let’s begin with the night it happened.  Tell me what happened that night . . .”

The questions lasted all morning, and often the former footwizard asked unusual things.  He cast a few spells (Dara assumed they were spells) and he asked her to do a few strange actions while he watched, but by the time they were done with luncheon Master Banamor was fairly certain Dara possessed at least a little measureable Talent.

“It’s hard to say about this sort of thing, exactly,” he mused as he prepared to leave.  “The onset of magical ability usually manifests in puberty, but the spell seems to have accelerated and accentuated the Talent in those it affected.  We have about a dozen cases of vomiting from that night, over-all.  Every one of them has tested well for
rajira
, which I find professionally interesting. 

”But not all have manifested a discernible Talent, and I theorize that whatever it is that pushed each of you to express your
rajira
may have awakened an incompletely formed talent.  In other words I expect this to be the mere sprouting of your
rajira
; it may develop more in time, much more.”  The wizard rose and began to depart.  “We will check back with you in the spring.  But be certain to let the castle know if you begin demonstrating any strange occurrences.”

“What
kind
of strange occurrences?” Aunt Anira asked, wiping her hands on her apron as she eyed Dara warily.

Banamor shrugged.  “She’s a twelve year old girl.  If she does anything a regular twelve year old girl doesn’t do, that’s noteworthy.”

Uncle Keram cleared his throat.  “Respectfully, Master, Dara climbs mountains without permission and trains falcon in secret.  I’ve not known any other twelve year old girl to do that.”

“A fair point,” agreed Banamor with a smirk and an indulgent look at Dara.  “Well, then, if something suddenly catches on fire, or if water suddenly overflows, ice, steam or fog appears inexplicably, or if rocks or small objects start shooting around the room without apparent reason to do so . . . that sort of thing.”

Dara’s eyes were wide.  “That could happen?  I could set things on fire?  With magic?”

“It
can
happen,” he agreed, reluctantly.  “But it’s usually something subtle.  In fact, I think your Talent may go dormant for a few months or even years before it manifests.  For some the appearance of
rajira
is a gradual thing.  For others it is sudden and often disconcerting.  For maidens, it often appears soon after their first flowering.  For boys, it can go just about any time.  And there’s no guarantee that it will develop into anything at all.  Not all with
rajira
are subject to its whims.  It’s just too soon to tell.” Banamor went on to give her a brief history of magic and wizards, most of which she was unaware of. 

He explained how magic had once been common, during the age of the Old Imperial Magocracy, the great human civilization to the east in ages past.  When that magic-fueled culture had been destroyed by human barbarians invading from the north, the new folk had been highly suspicious of magic, though they themselves practiced it in a limited form.  After those barbarians had conquered the Magocracy, they had settled down and became the Five Duchies.

For four hundred years the Five Duchies of human civilization had limited the power of wizards – magi – by strict statute and ruthless enforcement known as the Bans of Magic.  The enforcers of the Bans were a dour, deadly order of warmagi, wizards trained to fight known as the Censorate of Magic.

That, Banamor explained, was where their new lord, Minalan the Spellmonger, came in.  He had overturned that old order.  He had captured a
witchstone
, the footwizard said with a gleam in his eye, from the hand of a goblin shaman in battle far away in the Minden mountains.  A witchstone, he explained, was a tiny sliver of green amber that could magnify a mage’s powers dramatically.  It was also prohibited by the Bans.

“But our good lord was not going to let a silly law keep him from defending his people, so he not only ignored the Bans, he captured another twenty or so witchstones and gave them out to his friends.  Used them to pull off a daring escape right under the noses of an army of goblins, too.  He would have been arrested and executed by the bloody Censorate, had he not convinced Duke Rard and Duke Lenguin to let him raise an army and stop an invasion.  After he cast a spell to summon a hundred-foot fire elemental and drove off a dragon, the Duke had the good sense to overturn the Bans and knight the Spellmonger on the field.  That’s how he became your lord: Sevendor is his reward for saving the Duchies.”

“So what about these Censor fellows, now?” asked Keram, worriedly.

“They’ve been asked to leave Castal,” Banamor informed them, grimly, “but they are reluctant to go, owing no Duke their master.  They hate the Spellmonger with a burning passion, for what he has done and who he is.  Our lord has enemies.  But he also has powerful friends.  He’s been asked by the Duke to train more warmagi in using witchstones, for his stone is the only one that can wash away the taint of goblins from them. 

“But it’s either the very best time to discover you have magical Talent, or the very worst,” he shrugged.  “And Sevendor is either the very best place to be with magical Talent, or the very worst.  It all depends upon your perspective.  Either way,” he said with a grin for Dara, “Discovering you have
rajira
is right now, there’s only one thing I
can
guarantee.”

“What’s that?” Dara asked

“It will be interesting.  It won’t be boring.  Not that it appears you suffer from a boring life,” he said, glancing at Frightful, who was still wary of the strange man around her human.  “But for good or ill, my dear, you have had the fortune to learn you are Talented in perhaps the most magically interesting place in the world, at the most interesting time.”

*                            *                            *

The after-effects of the spell that had turned the mountain white and made Dara ill lingered on in her, fading but not entirely going away.  Especially as she was falling asleep or waking up she seemed to feel and see things that other people didn’t.  It was confusing, but it passed quickly enough when she shook herself into wakefulness.  After a few weeks she grew so used to it that her prospective Talent faded from importance.  It wasn’t as if she had time to dwell on it – Frightful was taking up an awful lot of her time.