Hawkmaiden (19 page)

Since her successful first free flight Dara and Keram had continued to work on establishing good retrieval training in the bird, encouraging her to return to Dara’s gauntleted fist.  Dara had developed a special call that meant “come back now!”  It worked indoors, to the point where Dara could put Frightful anywhere in the hall or yard and she would stay put until called, then fly to her.

But while the falcon was obedient around the Hall, she proved stubbornly reluctant to return when flying free.  The first time Frightful had refused to return to her glove in the meadow had been a terrifying and anxious experience for Dara.  She was working alone that day, and the weather was overcast, making it difficult for her to spot the bird in the sky. 

She frantically made the retrieval call, over and over, and listened for the bells.  But Frightful seemed far more interested in circling the meadow and investigating treetops.  Dara got mad – Frightful seemed to be mocking her, the way she dove down into the meadow and then pulled up, her growing wings catching the air as she climbed away from the glove.  Dara made the call again and again, and dangled the feathered lure in the air, but Frightful refused to comply until hunger finally drove her to return.

Dara was furious, but Frightful was a
bird
, not a
person
, her uncle explained that night when she told him about it.  He cautioned her against taking the training process personally, which no good falconer did.  Frightful’s reluctance wasn’t a failure of training, he told her, but a bird’s natural curiosity about its surroundings.  Only patient, persistent persuasion could bring her to obedience.

Dara was unconvinced. Frightful seemed to be laughing at her.

Those incidents grew fewer and fewer, as the weather warmed and Dara continued training.  But the bird’s capacity to be distracted was maddening to the girl.  Just when she thought she was making progress towards a well-trained hunter, Frightful would decide that she’d had enough of the routine and go off on her own, her tiny silver bells tinkling mockingly in Dara’s ears as she flew away.  While she always did —
eventually
– return, the experience was frustrating Dara to no end.

Spring arrived at the Westwood with its usual abruptness.  As the new leaves sprouted on the trees and the foliage began to green, the wood came alive with distractions, from chipmunks to badgers, and it seemed like every bird in the world wanted to investigate the tamed falcon that flew over the meadow.

On her uncle’s advice, Dara took Frightful across the bridge and into the vale to give her some new territory to practice in.  He recommended the cleared land in the valewood, the former forest sacrificed to build the homes of the Bovali settlers.  The land was marked by the snow spell as well, the stumps of the felled trees poking out of chalk-like soil, but the plants and animals there didn’t seem to notice.  The stumpy wasteland
bordered on the orderly fields of Sevendor Village, where the peasants were already breaking the ground with their great wooden plows.

The fields seemed perfect for the task of flying her bird.  There was little in the way of distraction in the clear-cut land, and it provided an unobstructed view of her falcon as she flew farther and farther from her.

Things seemed to be going well, that morning.  Dara had let Frightful fly across the stubbly field half a dozen times, and after every flight the falcon had obediently returned to her glove when she had waved the lure and made the retrieval call.

But then the seventh flight the idiot bird had gotten the idea that there was something interesting in the edges of the field, and refused to respond to the call.  In fact the more frantic Dara called and waved the lure, the more disdainful the falcon became. 

Dara started swearing after a half hour of fruitless calling.  Frightful studiously ignored her, and continued to fly wide circles overhead.  She was soaring impishly toward the northern ridge of hills, toward Caolan’s Pass, when Dara’s frustration turned to fear.  If the bird got over the ridge and lost her bearings, it was possible she would not find her way back.

As dread clung to her heart, Dara repeated the call over and over again, waving the lure over her head.  But Frightful continued to ignore her call.  Dara focused her eyes on the diminishing speck in the sky, her fear rising higher and higher with each passing second . . .

. . . and then something remarkable happened.  For a few moments, Dara
found herself wrenched out of her body
, and seemed to be soaring overhead
with Frightful
.

It was only for a few seconds, but in those seconds Dara became completely disconcerted.  The scale and perspective she witnessed from Frightful’s point-of-view was so strange and different than what a human saw and felt that dizziness overcame her.  The Westwood, the croplands, and the ridge all spread out in a majestic view before her, but the distance to the ground and the far horizon were strange and confusing to a mind used to thinking in two dimensions. 

In a panic Dara lashed out with her mind, and felt Frightful’s confused and terrified response.  The feeling of confusion and dizziness from vertigo were too much.  Dara fainted, her face falling into the cool, damp earth.

When she came to wakefulness again, she was not alone.  A gawky-looking youth with unkempt hair and a concerned expression on his face loomed over her.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his eyes wide with worry.

“What?  I . . .
where’s my bird?
” Dara said, sitting bolt upright.  That was a mistake, she realized, as the world swam around her.  She still felt some residual vertigo from her uncanny experience.  Her stomach churned with nausea.

“You mean
this
terrifying-looking creature?” he asked, amused, as he nodded toward a nearby stump.  There sat her falcon, looking at her accusingly.

“She came back!” Dara sighed, a wave of relief washing over her.

“You fainted because you were upset your pet falcon didn’t come back?” the youth asked, confused.

“No, I . . . wait, who are you?” she demanded, sitting up more carefully this time.  She looked at the man more carefully now. 

He wasn’t a villein, she could tell – he wore a good woolen tunic and wool mantle, and his shoes were sturdy boots made for traveling, not plowing.  No, Dara decided, those hands had never touched a plow, or much else involving blisters.  There was a dagger and purse on his belt, and he wore an odd little pointed cap.

“Me?  I’m Gareth.  I’m a warmage.  Or, at least, I was
supposed
to be one,” he said, discouraged.  “I was tried for a witchstone, but I . . . well, it doesn’t matter.  I’m a mage, even if I’m not a warmage.  I did well at thaumaturgy at school, though, so the Magelord asked me to stick around for a while, even if I don’t get a witchstone.  Yet.”

“You don’t look like a warmage,” she pointed out, though she had never seen one, to her knowledge. 

“Yes, I know,” Gareth said, patiently.  “I’m a hundred pounds too light, I barely have the strength to wear real armor, and I’m kind of clumsy, too.  It wasn’t really my first choice,” he admitted.

“Why would you want to be a
war
mage?” she asked, confused.  “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Why do you want to be a falconer?” he replied, a little defensively.  “Isn’t
that
a little dangerous?”

“Falconry?  It’s not dangerous!” she insisted.

“. . . coming from a girl who just fainted dead away in the middle of a field,” he pointed out, “you’ll excuse me if I find you less than convincing.”

“It’s not
usually
dangerous,” Dara amended, bringing herself slowly to her feet with the youth’s help. 

“Well, I didn’t really want to become a warmage, but I figured if I tried, I might be able to get a witchstone from the Spellmonger.  Turns out he’s a thaumaturge, too, like me, so he wants me to join him.  A witchstone would be very valuable . . . for research,” he added, warily.  “So why did you faint?”

“I’m new at this, and . . . well, I had a . . .” she didn’t know how to describe the experience, she realized.

Then she realized that of all the people who could have found her, the Flame had brought one of the few to her who might lend some insight on the experience.

“You’re a mage?” she asked, almost accusatory.

“Licensed and registered,” he said, proudly, as he helped her take a seat on a nearby stump, “although after what the Magelord has done to the profession, I’m not sure exactly what that means anymore.  But yes, I’m a real mage.  Why?”

“Because I’ve been told I might be Talented,” she said, carefully, “because I threw up when the mountain turned white.”

“
Really?
” Gareth asked, with renewed interest.  “That’s fascinating!”

“Not at the time,” she corrected.  “My sheets were ruined.  But a wizard from the castle came by and said I might have . . . ra . . .”

“
Rajira?
” Gareth finished with a grin.  “That’s looking likely.  Several people have reported some strange effects from that spell.  Including the revelation of undiscovered
rajira
.  I’ve been helping Master Banamor keep track of them, for the Spellmonger.  That’s fascinating!” he repeated.

“So you said,” Dara replied, a little irritated, as she looked to check on Frightful.  The bird’s eyes were glaring at her accusingly, but she seemed otherwise undisturbed by the strange incident.  “But the reason I fainted was that while I was trying to get this ungrateful,
spiteful
bird back, something happened.  Something very strange.”

“What?” asked Gareth with intense interest.

“For a brief moment . . . I was
there,
” she said with emphasis, nodding toward Frightful.  “It was like I was behind her eyes.”

“Behind her eyes,” the mage repeated, stroking his chin.  There wasn’t much that could pass for a beard there, yet, Dara noted, but the way he stroked the few hairs there it was as if Gareth was encouraging them to grow.  “That’s . . .”

“
Fascinating?
” Dara supplied, wryly.  “It also made me faint.  So why did that happen, oh great and powerful wizard?”

“Thaumaturgically speaking,” Gareth began, ignoring the jibe, “I would have to say you experienced a trans-species bilocation effect.”

“Can you repeat that again in language real people use?” Dara asked, mildly irritated with the mage.  It didn’t seem to bother the man – he grinned instead.

“You slipped into her consciousness,” he explained.  “It’s known as forced rapport, when you do it to a human being, and it’s very,
very
difficult.  With animals,” he continued, “the effect is easier to achieve but harder to control.  There are actually magi who specialize in that sort of thing, although I don’t know how terribly useful it is.  They’re known as Beastmasters, some places.  Some can work only with one or two kinds of animals, others can eventually inhabit most creatures, with practice.”

“With practice? Why would anyone want to practice that?” Dara demanded.  “I almost threw up!” “If it was the first time it happened, it’s no wonder that you had a poor reaction,” Gareth soothed, taking a seat on another stump.  “I’ve studied this, in Thaumaturgic Theory.  It’s sometimes known as Brown Magic.  Theoretically speaking, forcing a human consciousness into a brain the size of a hazelnut is problematic.  It would take a lot of getting used to.  The good news is that it gets easier and more manageable with practice.  In
theory
,” he repeated.  “Beastmasters can supposedly do remarkable things with their familiars.”

“Familiars?”

“A beastmaster term for their special animal friends,” Gareth explained.  “If you try to establish that rapport and you both get used to it, eventually you should be able to control her, see through her eyes, and direct her actions.  I’d think that would be a handy skill for a falconer to have,” he pointed out.

Dara couldn’t argue with that . . . but the idea of voluntarily experiencing the massive vertigo and dizziness she’d felt sounded appalling.

“Try to work with her when she’s
not
flying,” suggested the mage thoughtfully.  “If you can establish a rapport when she’s at rest, then getting used to it when she’s flying will be easier.  Eventually it will be as easy as getting dressed in the morning.”

“You have no idea how challenging that is for a girl,” Dara said, recalling the many, many times her sisters had turned the Hall upside down over their wardrobe choices.  “But thank you for your advice.  And thank you for your help, Gareth,” she said, as she gathered up her supplies.

“It wasn’t a problem.  I was just exploring the edge of the snowstone effect – that’s what we’re calling it – when I saw you fall.  It’s not every day you find pretty redhead maidens just lying around in a field, so I thought I would be unchivalrous of me not to at least stop and see if I could help.  Do you live in Sevendor village?”

“Well, thanks,” she said.  “No, I’m . . . I’m from the Westwood.  The Westwood estate.  Dara – sorry, Lenodara of Westwood Hall,” she introduced herself.  “But everyone calls me Dara.  I’m the youngest daughter of the Master of the Wood.”