Her body gasped as the Thoughtful Knife launched itself into the sky thrice as fast as Frightful had ever flown. The sensation of speed was exhilarating, coming without the sensation of wind in her feathers... or the sensation of feathers. It was pure acceleration, coupled with a feeling of joy that washed across her like a bolt of warm sunshine. Dara had to stop herself from proceeding into the sky indefinitely, propelled by the joyful feeling of speed the Knife gave her.
But more sober thoughts prevailed, thankfully, and when she found herself flying high over Sevendor Castle, she slowed her ascent and turned, just by thinking about it. There was no resistance or argument in the decision, unlike Frightful, when she was feeling contrary, the Knife merely executed the demand... until she was staring back down at the castle.
It looked so different from this vantage. She’d seen it from the air before, but Frightful’s eyes didn’t recognize most people or even buildings the same way she did now. Dara could see every detail of the castle below, when she stretched her perceptions. She saw plenty of people’s faces as clearly as if she were standing next to them.
She saw the young men practicing drills with blunted spears and wooden swords in the practice yard, while the kitchen building bubbled with activity as cooks and drudges poured in and out. The armorers were busy patching and repairing their wares, and the stableboys were mucking out their stalls. The entire place was as busy as an anthill, as the castle prepared for more war.
Dara took a few breaths to get her bearings again, concerned about how fast the Thoughtful Knife could fly... and how good it felt. With great consciousness she allowed the magical creation to fall gently back toward the ground, as slowly as she could. When she came even with the topmost point on Master Minalan’s tower, she took a deep breath and began experimenting with the device.
She learned how to control its flight, bank and turn at speeds impossible for a bird to match, and spun a course around the ramparts of the castle until she was comfortable with her control. Soon she was flying the Knife between the towers of the castle, and by late afternoon she was threading between the merlons of the battlements with precision.
By the time Minalan pulled her out of the trance her body was in, she was proficient in making the Knife do what she wanted it to do. It was an incredible experience – as amazing, in its way, as flying with Frightful. But her body was suffering, after more than four hours practicing. Her hands were shaking as she flew the Knife back to its perch on the workbench and replaced the control stone in its top.
“Well done, Dara!” Minalan murmured, as he saw how neatly she landed the artifact.
“She seems to be naturally Talented,” Lady Varen conceded, pleased. “She has wit and valor, it seems. Should she master the Knife, it is possible that it could be employed against a dragon. If applied with sufficient force and dexterity, there is a possibility that the Knife could be effective against dragon hide.”
The idea startled Dara. Her? Fight a dragon?
But it apparently wasn’t up to her.
“Let us hope it can be,” Master Minalan sighed, wearily. “It may be our only hope. If I can find some way to transport Dara and myself all the way to Barrowbell in the next few days, we may arrive before the Dead God sends a worm.”
“But Magelord,” Lady Varen said, gently, “I would be happy to transport you and the girl, and any others you need. As I said, with snowstone proximate, it is a far simpler enchantment.”
“That’s quite noble of you,” Minalan said. Dara wasn’t certain what was meant by “transport”, but considering the tales surrounding the mysterious and powerful Alka Alon, she could imagine what it meant. “But isn’t that too long a distance?”
The beautiful non-human smiled. “Magelord, distance matters not. My kindred have walked this world for thousands of years. Mighty empires have risen and fallen. Great cities were built and fell to ruin. But magic... magic persists. Wherever the Alka Alon have established a transport point in the past, I can send you.”
That made Master Minalan pause, and consider something. Although she’d only had a few days’ acquaintance with the Spellmonger, personally, Dara was already starting to recognize when he had an idea.
“Lady Varen,” he finally said, slowly, “just how many of us could you transport?”
“Let’s leave them to their planning,” Pentandra said, suddenly, ushering the three apprentices out of the room. “They have much to arrange, now.”
“Like what?” Dara asked, absently. She was still reeling from being back in her own body, and the discussion had quickly devolved into technical language that was outside of her understanding.
“Like figuring out how to move six thousand men and two thousand horses more than a thousand miles in four or five days,” Rondal answered, running his fingers through his hair. “And us,” he added, with a sigh. “All of us, it looks like,” he said, glancing at Dara meaningfully.
“I... I’m going into... battle,” Dara repeated in a daze, trying to accept the sudden development. “Just like my brothers. And my father.”
“You should go eat supper,” suggested Lady Pentandra, concerned. “Leave the difficult questions to us. You take care of yourself. Using an enchantment as powerful as the Knife for too long will deplete your arcane energies, if you aren’t careful. Drink as much as you are able. You’re tissues need some restoration, and you will need plenty of sleep tonight,” she said, patting her shoulder.
Dara realized her tutor was correct – she was famished. Her stomach was complaining bitterly and her body was weak. Her mouth was dry, as dry as a dusty road.
“Thank you,” she said, automatically. “That was... fun,” she decided. “But it was also tiring.”
“No more lessons, for the time being,” Pentandra announced. “Until further notice, you’ll practice with the Thoughtful Knife until you become proficient with it. Now go get some supper in the Great Hall,” she said, kindly. “You’ve earned it.”
The Great Hall was starting to get crowded at this time of day. The sun was already setting, and the early diners had filed through and checked themselves with Sir Festaran, the handsome young knight who had come to Sevendor as a prisoner, had advised and even fought for Sevendor through the siege, and was now acting as Sire Cei’s assistant castellan. He took to his duties with enthusiasm, and he always seemed terribly optimistic.
Dara accepted a mug of weak ale and a trencher from a drudge – a village woman she recalled as Lartrygg, one of the many folk who worked in the busy castle kitchens. The woman came back a moment later and spooned a heaping pile of vegetables on one side of the stale crust of bread, and then another drudge appeared with a plate of meat – mutton, but well-seasoned and delicious-smelling.
But the appearance of the servant caused Dara to pause, despite her great hunger. The drudge with the platter of meat was not human.
That, in itself, did not upset Dara. She had been working with Lady Varen all day, and the exotic beauty and bell-like voice of the Alka Alon was a constant reminder of her non-human nature.
This, however, was not an outrageously beautiful woman with a magical singing voice. In fact, it looked more like an overgrown badger wearing an apron and a hat.“Thank you!” the creature squeaked, in passable Narasi. Dara guessed her eyes must have been wide, the way Latrygg responded.
“Oh, you haven’t met Clover, yet,” she realized. “She and some of her folk have been helping out at the castle, since Master Olmeg brought them into that marshy pit he calls home, now,” she clucked. “But they’re good workers, when they don’t get hair in everything. They’re starting to pick up some Narasi. I don’t ordinarily let them serve, but with half of our potboys out playing soldier we were shorthanded, today.”
“Thank you!” Clover squeaked again, adding a short bow this time.
“That’s about all she says, so far,” Latrygg said with a sympathetic smile. “But she’s got a good head on her, and she’s ready for service. As long as she keeps her
arm hairs trimmed and her hat on, when she’s serving,” she added, casting a skeptical glance at the paws that held the platter.
Dara didn’t see anything wrong with the length of the hair on the furry brown arm. But then she wasn’t in charge of the kitchens.
“Let me know if she makes any mistakes, Maid Dara,” Latrygg added. “We’re still getting them used to proper manners, and I want to know what needs correction. And no,” she said, rolling her eyes at Dara’s face, “that doesn’t mean a beating. Master Olmeg is quite particular how we handle his little folk,” she said, fondly. “He will bear no mistreatment of them.”
“Thank you!” Clover said, a third time. Dara didn’t think she understood what was being discussed, entirely, and for a moment she had a powerful feeling of sympathy for the Tal Alon girl. All too often she felt the same sense of confusion over what she was supposed to be doing, and the same lack of understanding of what was really going on.
“No, thank you, Clover!” Dara said in as friendly tone as possible. “Good luck with your new position!”
“They take a little getting used to,” Gareth said, a moment later, as he slid into the seat on the bench beside her. He was apparently finished eating, but he still bore a cup of ale. Dara didn’t let him keep her from eating. She drew her belt knife and began stabbing at the mutton as hungrily as Frightful devoured a rabbit’s kidney. “The Tal Alon are a simple folk, but they have near-human intelligence,” he informed her.
“She was nice,” Dara commented around a bite of the hot mutton. Manners or not, her stomach would not abide any more delay. “I’m partial to things with fur and feathers, anyway,” she declared, as she swallowed the first delicious bite. “I’ve seen them from afar, over Farant’s Hold, and I saw a few at the Magic Fair, but that’s the first time I really met one.”
“They’re distant cousins of the Alka Alon – very distant,” Gareth emphasized. “Legend has it that the Tree Folk bred the River Folk as gardeners, compliant servants one step up from actual beasts. They don’t use magic – at least, I’ve never heard of any using it – and they live in crappy little communal huts, partially buried.”
“Gareth! That’s a terrible thing to say!” Dara reproved as juice dripped down her chin. She brushed it away with her sleeve.
“In this case, it’s literally true,” the mage chuckled. “They are adept with nightsoil. Their privies are designed to collect it, and then they mix it with dirt and mulch. They use it to fertilize the gardens they plan all over their homes. The Tal Alon hate to waste a sunny spot that isn’t planted, so they tend to put berry bushes and herbs everywhere they can smear their rich... pungent... soil. Once you get over the smell, it’s actually very pretty. They like growing flowers, too.”
“I think they’re cute!” Dara said, watching Clover follow behind Latrygg with her platter.
“Then you’ll be happy to know that you’ll be seeing a lot more of them,” Gareth assured her. “Lady Alya favors them for servants, due to their loyalty... and their ability to get into corners to clean, I expect. Hells, they dust everything their furry little butts swipe up against. But they have a much better life here in Sevendor than they did last year. They were running from the goblin invasion when Master Olmeg recruited them,” he said, troubled.
“The goblins hate the Tal Alon, too?” Dara asked, shaking her head. How could anyone hate something so inoffensive?
“Oh, no, they love the Tal Alon,” he assured her. Then his tone got dark. “They love them roasted, boiled, broiled, fried...”
“Gareth!” Dara protested. “That’s disgusting! I’m eating!”
“Sorry,” he said, sincerely. “But that’s why they’re so damn glad to be here. When your kind is a prized delicacy among the most vicious and bloodthirsty of folk, I’m sure one has an acute appreciation for a decent job and a lot of strong knights and wizards around. And they do excel at growing vegetables,” he admitted. “Between their natural talents and Olmeg’s Green Magic, I expect next year’s harvest will dwarf this one.”
“I saw him this morning,” Dara agreed, taking a big swallow of the cool ale. “He’s going to replant those vacant fields with trees. Magical trees,” she added, excitedly.
“Weirwood, I know, I helped him arrange for the seedlings,” Gareth bragged. “That was actually the first place I met you,” he added, his eyes staring at her uncomfortably.
“That’s right,” she acknowledged. Best change the subject, she decided. “Oh, I did get one piece of news today: no more lessons for a while. They have me learning how to use the Thoughtful Knife.”
“You’re getting to use the Knife?” Gareth asked, troubled. “I thought they’d find a more experienced wizard for that.” Clearly, Dara saw, Gareth had hoped he’d be selected for using the dangerous weapon. “No offense, I don’t doubt your ability, but...”
“But maybe a wizard with more than three weeks training would be better? Those were my thoughts exactly!” she complained. “But apparently, I have more experience at bilocation than anyone else,” she pointed out. “And I’m used to flying already.”
“That does make a lot of sense,” Gareth agreed, though he didn’t look entirely convinced. “Oh, well. I’m sure they’ll come up with something important for me to do.”
“Master Minalan is not the type to let talents go to waste,” she agreed as she picked up some vegetables with her fingers and shoveled them into her mouth.
“Gods, you’re eating... healthily,” Gareth said, as he watched her.
“I missed luncheon, and I was working with the Knife all day,” she explained, a little self-consciously. “It takes a lot out of you.”
“Oh, I understand,” he nodded. “Any kind of intense magic work can make you hungry. Or sleepy. Or other things. Especially if you’re working with irionite. I just didn’t realize you were doing that kind of work, yet.”
“There’s a war on,” she reflected, as she stared at Sir Festaran, who wore his armor all the time like a proper knight should. Ready for battle at any moment. Ready for a violent death, if need be, if duty so dictated. She tried to imagine such a life. “We’re all called upon to do things we didn’t think we’d ever do,” she decided. “We do the best we can.”
It was only a mile or so from the castle to Westwood Hall, but the overcast sky kept the light of the stars and moon from providing any light to walk by. That left Dara stumbling along the road, alone, after she’d been dismissed from her duties after supper. She was profoundly tired, and her body ached from hours of inactivity. Her newly-full stomach protested so much movement, when it wanted to digest, and the road under her tired feet was simply not cooperating with her desire to go home without incident.
It was annoying, stubbing the toe of her boot because she couldn’t see the road, as well-trodden as it was. Normal girls were preparing for bed at this time of night, she fumed, the fourth time an untimely step nearly made her sprawl face-down on the road. Normal girls are thinking about boys and clothes and such. Not crawling home exhausted after a hard day’s work flying around the castle!
It was a pointless rant to no one, in the midst of her weariness, but the long walk home along the dark road gave Dara a few moments to react to her new life. It was incredibly exciting and interesting, even more so than falconry, but... it was also painfully demanding, she decided, as she forced one foot in front of the other. Learning magic – and being apprenticed to Master Minalan – was an incredible opportunity, and she’d been assured by both he and Lady Pentandra that she had the wit to learn the craft.
But at the moment, as she tripped again, she wondered if their confidence in her intelligence was misplaced. How could the girl who was bright enough to plan a secret mountain-climbing expedition to capture a baby falcon be too stupid to remember to grab a torch or lantern for from the castle?
She groaned in exasperation, at her own forgetfulness, and at how uncomfortable she was in her new position. After a day like this she could see the allure to
a simple life of a normal girl: home and hall, chores and... and regular bed-times. The life of a wizard, she was gathering, was fraught with such hardships. At least, that’s what Gareth and Banamor often said.
That thought made Dara stop in her tracks.
I really am stupid, she decided. I’m a wizard!
She’d missed her regular lessons today, it was true. But that didn’t mean she’d forgotten what she’d learned. It took her a few moments to compose herself, bringing her breathing under control and making her mind relax into the proper state... but soon she was able to visualize the three runes she needed to do what she wished. From there it was a simple matter of defining the parameters of the spell, adding a binding rune, and then feed the spell energy...
When she opened her eyes, a tiny white star, no bigger than an acorn but perfectly round, hovered in front of her face. Dara gasped, despite herself. It worked! She’d created a magelight, all by herself. For the first time she’d used magic to do something other than fly around or demonstrate her understanding. She’d conjured a magelight, enough light for her to see by – well, at least see the ground well enough not to trip. The arcane glow from the tiny white sphere illuminated a small patch below it for a few feet, but no more.
Still, she reasoned, as she directed it with her finger to light the way ahead, it was a professional victory, the mark of a real wizard. And it was terribly useful, even if the tiny light she’d managed was pretty feeble, compared to the ones Master Minalan and the other magi used. No flint and iron, no candle, no torch – just her. And light.
She experimented with it as she walked, her weariness momentarily forgotten. It was fun, directing the magelight around like her own personal star. Sending the light ahead, or higher or lower, or even sending it to scare a racquiel in the bushes, preoccupied her so much that it wasn’t until she approached the guard at the bridge over the Chasm that she remembered how tired she was.
Hawklady: A Spellmonger Cadet Novel Page 6