“Falcon,” Dara and her uncle corrected him, simultaneously.
That made Kamen laugh. “Falcon, then. You’ve done a good job, Little Bird!”
“You have,” agreed Keram. “She’s healthy, happy, and ready to hunt. As soon as the weather gets warm, we can start real fieldwork. Until then we’ll have to make her a better lure to start practicing with.”
“A better lure?” Dara asked.
“A bit of leather with some feathers and such attached,” explained her uncle as he gathered up the falconry gear into the basket Dara had started carrying it in. “I’ll show you how to make one. Something that resembles prey enough so she can practice with it. Play with it,” he corrected.
“Falcons . . . play?” asked her father, amused.
“Not the way a cat or dog would,” admitted Keram, “but they do sport with their prey a bit. A lure is essential to help her develop a feel for hunting. And next time we can try a longer flight – a true flight, beyond the meadow.”
Dara was even more hesitant about that. Once Frightful was beyond her line of sight, only the tinkle of her tiny bells gave Dara any sense of her presence. She couldn’t even imagine what she would feel like if the falcon flew away and never came back.
“That’s enough for today, anyway,” she sighed, postponing the anxiety that came with the anticipation as she glanced at the cloudy gray sky through her steamy breath. “It looks like snow.”
* * *
Sevendor did not get much snow.
Dara could recall only seeing snow twice, and only once had it accumulated to any depth. When it did come in any quantity, Keram explained as they hurried back from the meadow, most of the estate’s business shut down. The way he kept looking nervously at the approaching clouds told Dara he was worried about it.
Within the hour flakes started to fall across the vale. Dara delighted in the beautiful, full flakes that dropped gracefully over the wood and hall. They looked absolutely lazy, she decided, and the patterns were beautiful, even if they made her dizzy. Frightful was less impressed with the snow, and kept fluffing her feathers indignantly by the time they had reached the yard.
By nightfall over an inch had gathered, blanketing every surface in sight in a pristine layer of snow. It transformed the manor, making the normally-dirty brown and gray exterior bright and festive. The children of the Hall played in the yard in the novelty until the winds picked up and drove them inside to the warmth of the Flame. There was a note of anxiety and excitement surrounding the snow. How long would it last? How deep would it be? Would regular chores get canceled? Would they be stuck in the hall for days? Weeks? Would they run out of wood and freeze? Would they all starve? Would they have to resort to eating the dogs and cats? To cannibalism?
The children’s fantasies got richer and more complex as they imagined more and more dire consequences due to the snow. Had she really been like that? she asked herself as she overheard their enthusiastic predictions of doom.
As excited as Dara was to tell the tale of Frightful’s first unencumbered flight at dinner that night, her news was once-again overshadowed by the lord of the domain. Not even the unexpected snowfall was more important important than the news from Sevendor Village. Dinner that night was filled with conversation about a scuffle Magelord Minalan had with one of the neighboring domains.
Dara couldn’t help it – as eager as she was to share in front of the Flame her success with her bird, she was just as eager to hear her cousin Keru’s account (which he got from a Gurisham girl who was sweet on one of the Magelord’s apprentices) of an actual lordly duel.
It seemed that the displaced titular lord of the stolen estate of Brestal had been upset with the Magelord re-conquering his illegally-taken lands, and had sought out the mage to settle the matter with a formal duel. Sir Gimbal’s son was young, and had just been knighted by his father a few months before. As a knight, he had felt honor-bound to fight for the lands his father had stolen for him.
He had appeared at the far pass with an entourage of unlikely knights – newly-made members of the chivalry, their squirehood barely behind them – and demanded satisfaction from Lord Minalan for his loss.
The Magelord had given him satisfaction . . . by defeating him soundly and insisting on a ransom, before giving the young lordling his parole.
“Sir Ganulan was the instigator, ‘tis said,” Keru reported in front of the Flame with a grin, “a vassal of his father, Sire Gimbal, the Lord of West Fleria.” West Fleria was Sevendor’s neighbor to the north, a far richer country, agriculturally speaking, than the mountain vale. But what prosperity the people were able to pull from the land was quickly taken up by the Warbird: the Lord of West Fleria and half a score other domains. Sire Gimbal of West Fleria was a legendary figure to the peasantry of the lands around Sevendor. And it was to his son that the tiny Brestal estate had been carved off of Sevendor and included in his holdings. After the duel, there could be no doubt about its ownership. Now the lad had not just lost his estate, he had lost his dignity and a fair-sized ransom, from what Keru said.
While the younger men seemed enthusiastic about the drubbing their new lord had delivered to a hated foe, Dara noticed her uncles and her father exchange concerned looks. Such insults between lords often led to violence that affected the common folk, she knew. She, herself, was thrilled to hear of the Magelord’s victory, but she also was starting to appreciate what that pride might end up costing her.
“It really is coming down, out there!” one of her older female cousins called from the window as she peered out of the shutters at the yard. “The whole courtyard is covered, now!” The talk grew lively until Aunt Anira asserted her authority, glancing at the Flame as she sent them back to their tables. There was a delighted murmur in the Hall, as another great log was placed upon the Flame. Calls went up for the Story of the Flame, as tradition demanded, and all eyes looked toward her father, who sighed and lurched to his feet.
“It is a snowfall,” he began in a loud tone of voice that cut across everyone else’s. The hall immediately quieted down. No one wanted to disrespect the Master of the Wood in front of the Flame. “When the snow covers the ground, then the time comes to retreat to the comfort of the Flame, eat, drink, and tell stories in its light as the wood is enshrouded. And the first story, by tradition, is spoken by the Master of the Wood, and tells of how our folk came to the Westwood, so many generations ago that the count is long lost.
“It is said,” her father said, clearing his throat with the help of a mug of ale as the folk of the Hall settled down to listen, “that our forebears were once a people of great learning who lived in a mountain vale far to the south and east of here. They had knowledge of a secret fire and were charged with protecting and harvesting the fire from the barren land they lived in, for the benefit of many. Why they did this is lost to us, but they were a wise and brave people and for generations they tended their mountain shrine.
“But the day came when they were driven from their home. Their wisdom was valued by evil men, and instead of turning the secret fire to their service they vowed to seal their shrines, bank the secret fire, and take their secrets to a far-away place where they could find refuge and a new life away from the evil men.”
He looked around at the faces rapt in attention. Her father did not often tell stories, and usually only at ceremonial occasions, but there were many stories and laws only the Master of the Wood could tell. This one had not been heard in several years. There was no predicting when it might be heard again, so the attention of the hall was focused tightly on her father.
“Their leader was Karl, and his woman was Lissa, and together they led our folk north away from danger. They vowed to live as simple folk of the wood, hidden away in some protected land, and so for months they journeyed seeking a place remote enough to become a refuge. Ever the evil men pursued them. Every they hid themselves and concealed their retreats. When they were forced to, they fought. They would rather have died than given th
e knowledge of the secret fire to those unworthy.
“Karl’s man Dalias, a ranger of great cunning and a great friend to the chieftain, discovered the vale that became Sevendor, and led Karl and Lissa and all their folk quietly away from their old encampment and to the new, defensible vale.
“But ever the evil men pursued them, desperate for the power of the secret fire and the knowledge to exploit it. The Westwood was remote from the knowledge of men in those days, and all of Sevendor Vale covered in the wood. Dalias and Karl contrived cunning traps along the way, while Lissa fashioned a bridge over the ravine. When she crossed to this very site, which was a great treeless meadow, she prayed for guidance as the sun set over the western ridge. Our folk lit no fire, though it was deep in winter, for though they were cold they did not want to alert their enemies.
“That night Lissa had a dream. The next morning, she awoke with her hair struck red as a new-forged copper. She called her men to her, and that morning they gathered stones from all over the wood and raised a mighty cairn. Within they placed all their knowledge and wisdom of the secret fire, and they closed it up. Lissa built a great fire on the cairn and our folk warmed themselves and cooked for the first time in days.
“Dalias and Karl ranged the vale and harassed their enemies from the protection of the wood. They made a camp on Matten’s Helm and concealed their paths with their woodcraft. For days they tormented their pursuers. They shot at them from hidden places. They entrapped them with clever plans and ever hid themselves in the bosom of the wood. As Lissa began to form the first Hall around the fire, her husband and his man kept the evil men at bay.
“One day soon after they arrived here,” he continued, taking another mighty pull from his mug, “Dalias and Karl’s luck ran out. They were beaten in battle and fell back to the safety of the wood yet again. They did all they could to lead their foes away from their most secret camp, but on that unfortunate day Dalias was slain as a storm loomed over the ridge. Karl fell back across the bridge to the Hall, and begged Lissa to conceal him.
“That brave lady did so, and opened a cavity in the mountain and put her lover within. When the evil men arrived, they were furious. Though they searched everywhere, they did not discover Karl the Rebel, and his lair was no prize. At last they had found the hidden lands of their prize – yet what they saw was not learned sages tending the secrets of the universe, but a band of half-starved rustics huddled around a fire for warmth. Lissa’s folk offered no more resistance. But they said only Karl knew where the secret fire was hidden, and they had not seen him in weeks.
“It began to snow. When the evil men finally made it to the ravine, they were tired. Some perished in trying to cross the simple bridge in place there. Those who made it across demanded the secret fire and searched every inch of the encampment . . . while our ancestors huddled around the Flame for warmth. Though they searched desperately, they found naught of either Karl or the secret fire. They did not discover Karl’s hiding place, for as they dared cross the chasm the snow fell so thick that it covered Karl’s tracks. When they looked for him, they saw only what the snow and the Flame let them see. Only once did they come close to Karl’s secret lair, but a pack of wolves appeared, sent by the Flame, and kept the evil men at bay. Karl was gone, Lissa insisted, and eventually they listened.
“Once they left the vale unfulfilled, Lissa ordered the flame to be stoked into a great fire, Karl was brought forth, and a feast was held to mourn the loss of valiant Dalias.
“That night Lissa had another dream, this one promising to secure our folk as long as the Flame was properly tended. The next day she laid upon our folk the sacred charge: to never let the Flame die, to never leave it unattended, and to never let the secrets of our folk be given to those unworthy of them.
“Thus we have endured, all these long years, on this small strip of land. For with the Flame to warm us and the Wood to feed us, the Chasm to guard us and the example of our ancestors to guide us, the Westwood will be secure against all darkness. For in darkness, the Flame abides.”
“In darkness, the Flame abides,” the entire Hall responded, in unison. It was the secret watchword of the Westwood, the central principal of the brave woodmen. It was the ritual words said over a new-born babe, during the private marriage ceremonies within the hall, and over the corpses of the beloved dead before they were burned to ashes.
As long as the Flame endured, it meant that all was well . . . and that hope yet lived.
* * *
That night, as the snow continued to cover the vale, Dara’s sleep was restless. It was a cold night, of course, and in addition to the snow the winds howled wickedly out of the chasm until it sounded like the howls of wolves. Tree limbs clattered and banged, some snapping and falling abruptly under the weight of snow on their boughs. The noise and the chill made Frightful skittish, forcing Dara to hood her before she blew out the taper and tried to sleep herself.
She didn’t know why, but she was feeling very anxious as she lay under the great quilt in her bed. The storm did not help her nerves, but that was not the source of her anxiety. Eventually she dismissed the vague feeling of unease as her picking up on Frightful’s skittishness – Uncle Keram had often said that a falconer and his bird came to share a bond or affinity like that. Dara’s long hours of training and care of the falcon had made her as familiar with her various moods as she was any person in the Hall.
To distract herself, she tried to envision the tale of Karl and Lissa, the founders of the Westwood and the kindlers of the Flame that had burnt continuously for centuries. They had been brave, she reminded herself, fleeing for their lives and protecting the secret of the Flame, whatever that was. They had not submitted to storm, hunger, or evil men. They had established the Flame and built a life for their descendents in the Wood.
That brought great comfort to Dara. But it did not entirely banish her unease. She fell asleep wondering what Karl and Lissa would have thought of the Magelord who now ruled their land.
Dara’s dreams were no more soothing than her waking thoughts. They were filled with crazy, haphazard images: memories of her fateful climb up the mountain and her descent, the Yule feast, the endless hours training with Frightful and . . . other things. There were images and folk she did not know, doing things she did not understand.
At some point, deep in the night, there was a flash, a light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, all at once. Dara was torn from her dream and savagely thrust into consciousness. She woke herself up screaming piteously, her mind in turmoil. The white brightness had been everywhere, a great and sudden wave that had collapsed like a bough of a tree breaking.
Dara opened her eyes in the darkness, the smallest bit of light filtering in from the corridor. Something was wrong, she knew. Something was very wrong.
Not just wrong . . . changed. Something was different.
“Smoke and ashes, girl, what’s wrong with you?” asked Aunt Alina from the doorway. “What . . . what . . . oh, by the Flame that warms us, what has happened? What have you done?” she demanded, her voice rising in tone and shrillness.
“What have . . . I was . . .” Dara mumbled confusedly, her mouth dry and her stomach churning. Things didn’t look right . . . her eyes weren’t seeing them properly . . . she struggled . . .
Things became clearer when the thin door was opened and her Uncle Keram pushed inside, carrying a lit taper that seemed much brighter than it should. His eyes were wide with fear.
“What happened?” he demanded.
“I . . . I had a bad dream,” Dara said, weakly.
“You screamed?”
“Dream!” Dara insisted. “I had a dream. I don’t know why I screamed. I was . . . falling, I think, and . . .”
“Are you all right?” he asked, concerned. “Shall I fetch your father?”
“No, no,” Dara protested. “I’m . . . I’m fine, it’s just . . . why does everything look so . . . different?” Her stomach lurched as she turned her head a
round. The dark stone of the wall didn’t look right . . . it didn’t even look dark. As her eyes focused and adjusted to the dim lamination of the taper, it appeared as if someone had snuck into her room and quietly whitewashed the walls.
Only that was impossible.
“What’s happening?” someone called sleepily from the corridor. “Why is . . . why is everything white?”
Uncle Keram looked at Dara suddenly and sternly. “Dara! What have you done?”
“Me? I was sleeping!” she protested. “I just had a bad dream, I –” She stopped speaking as her stomach finally came to some decision about its destiny. Dara threw up suddenly.
That sent her aunt into a tizzy as she started barking orders to her daughters and other folk in the vicinity of her voice. Dara felt herself get taken from her bed by her uncle, deposited before the Flame in the hall and stripped while her aunt bathed her with warm water scented with dried lavender.
“There, there,” her aunt crooned to her as she wiped the last of the residue from her face. “You poor thing . . . was it something you ate, do you think?”
“Why . . . why is everything white?” Dara demanded, confused, as she looked around. Every stone in the great firepit, every stone in the wall, even the clay wattle of the walls themselves were bright white. “What happened?”
“No one knows, yet,” her aunt said, nervously. “But we’ll get to the bottom of it soon enough, don’t you worry, Little Bird. You just had a dream,” she reminded her. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Except for all of this,” Dara said, helplessly gesturing toward the bright stones of the Flame. “How is this not something to worry about?”
“We’re still warm, dry and fed,” her aunt said, stubbornly as she covered Dara with her mantle. “The Flame is still lit. We’ll sort the rest out later.”
Dara nodded, and then accepted a sip from a bottle offered to her by her buck-toothed cousin Lanthi. It burned like fire, but it removed the vile taste of vomit from her lips. It also made her sleepy. Before she knew it, Dara was back asleep, the heat of the Flame on her face.
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