“The Prince arrives in a mere six days,” Sire Dasuos said, nearly shouting his emotions across the table. “He and his family expect to be accommodated as befits their station,” he said, in a warning tone.
“The resources of Sevendor are at your disposal,” I smiled. “How many in the Ducal Party?”
“Two hundred and six,” answered Lord Ustal, the little lord who apparently dealt with any issues that didn’t require shouting, as he recited a list from memory. “That is, Their Highnesses and the Heir, their immediate household of twenty-four, twelve gentlemen of the court, twenty-two attendants and servants for said gentlemen, nine ladies of the court and fifteen of their servants, three ministers, five clerks, two lawbrothers, the Ducal chaplain and his assistant, the chamberlain and his staff of four, the Prince’s personal physician, his barber, an almoner, and a hundred sergeants-at-arms of the Royal Guard,” he finished, proudly.
He spoke the words almost as a challenge . . . and for most other barons, it might be.
“Well, I will be happy to make this hall available for His Highnesses’ use,” I began in return, “which should accommodate most of his household, if they’re cozy. His gentlemen and ladies of the court shall have the use of the Baker’s Hall, where my family usually lives, a fine and well-appointed home. There are adequate servants’ quarters for both, attached.
“The ministers, clerks, clergy, and other professionals shall be quartered in Southridge Hold,” I said, pointing across the wall toward my brother-in-law’s estate. He’d invested heavily in hostels to take advantage of the frequent visitors to Sevendor, and he had ample capacity to house both the Ducal party and my displaced kin.
Moving out of their hall temporarily didn’t seem to bother my parents (it bothered my sisters, but then most everything bothered my sisters). Come spring, they would return to Talry-on-Burine where my father would re-open his bakery. They were already preparing for the move, and this gave Mama an excellent opportunity to sort out their belongings and pack some things away.
“As for the Royal Guard, they will be our guests at Brestal Tower, just a few miles away,” I continued. “We have already prepared accommodations for them. The keep is small, but there are two new halls within the bailey which should house your officers grandly. And the beer on that side of the vale is just as good, but a lot cheaper,” I added.
“Why . . . that’s . . . I . . .” stammered Lord Ustal, who apparently wasn’t used to having his questions answered quite so easily.
“And what about provision?” demanded Sire Dasuos.
“We have ample hay, oats, and straw for your party’s beasts,” I answered, smoothly, “and we can ensure we have a gracious plenty to feed our guests in style. Sufficient stocks of ale, wine, mead and spirits have been laid in, and some of our finest cooks will be competing to dazzle the tongues of the court.”
The two men looked at each other, and seemed to have a silent conversation. “What about tapers?” asked Sire Dasuos, just a little less loudly than before. I laughed.
“My lords, this is a mageland. We have but one chandler, and he’s near starving. Folk in Sevendor use magelights, usually. In this hall, we have nothing but,” I pointed out.
“And firewood?” Lord Ustal asked, hoping to trip me up.
“All you need,” I assured him. “Which won’t be much. This hall, and most other halls in this land, are warmed by heatstones, at need. Oh, we still use fire for cooking, but rarely for heating. It really cuts down on the soot in the air during the winter,” I observed, pointing to the relatively clear skies over the town in the distance.
Clearly, the two men weren’t used to being accommodated so easily. I could understand why. Usually, when a high noble toured his lands and guested with his vassals, part of the point of the exercise was to impress the rural gentry with how unsophisticated and rude they were, compared to their betters. Having two hundred extra mouths to feed, alone, could bleed a vassal of funds to the point of penury. Some counts and dukes even traveled with a moneylender, usually from some pet temple, who could arrange loans for the poor host who was forced to pay for it all by custom.
An element in the tradition was to also make a lot of demands on the host and keep him hopping trying to fill them. It was supposed to keep him humble in the face of his superiors. There were some great old myths about the lengths to which a host would go to feast his liege, most of which ended in comic horror when he failed.
I didn’t plan to fail.
“His Highness will, of course, as is tradition, hold a joint court with you while he is here, lending his magnificence to your proceedings. He is also fond of entertainments . . .”
“Sire Cei is holding a tournament,” I informed him, “local champions, only, and offering a fat prize. We have mock battles of warmagi planned, a horse race, and numerous musicians, jongleurs, and poets in town for the festival. And, of course, an exhibition of the arcane illuminations from some of our most talented enchanters. The Enchanters Guild has invited the court to a special fete in their hall, and the Temple of Briga is hosting a ball in Her Highness’ honor. Oh, and then there is the wedding,” I added casually, as the two men’s eyes glazed over.
“The wedding?” Sire Dasuos asked, confused.
“One of my new vassals is getting married . . . to Lady Falawen, a noblewoman of the Alka Alon. They shall be wed in front of the Everfire, on Briga’s Day.”
“The . . . Alka Alon?” Lord Ustal asked, confused. “Those little people?”
“When they wish to appear so,” I answered. “But Lady Falawen is a maiden of great beauty and uncommon intelligence, even for an Alka Alon. She’s one of the three Emissaries from their people to ours, in token of our alliance.”
“Is it truly proper to have such an . . . unseemly occasion for the Prince to witness?” asked Sire Dasuos.
“There is nothing unseemly about Trygg’s holy sacrament, my lords,” I said, coolly. “The Alka Alon are our allies. This is a valuable symbol of that alliance.”
“But . . . she’s not even human!” Sire Dasuos complained.
“A fact in which she takes a certain amount of pride. As does her father, Lord Aeratas, who will be in attendance with his men,” I added. “I trust you would not be so foolish as to imperil both our alliance and your own life by saying such . . . ill-considered things in his earshot. Lord Aeratas is not known for his forgiving nature. And his love of humanity is tepid, at best, compared to his daughter’s.”
That made both men go pale. “We shall practice discretion, then,” Sire Dasuos said, in an almost normal tone of voice.
“Yes, that would be best,” I agreed, riding. “Now that all the details have been dealt with, gentlemen, please enjoy the hospitality of Sevendor until His Highness arrives.”
Chapter Ten
The Mewstower
Now that I had the Ducal party taken care of, I had to make additional arrangements for the other important nobles who would be in attendance. After I dismissed Sire Dasuos and Lord Ustal I had my horse saddled for a quick trip over to the Westwood. Baron Arathanial of Sendaria and his party would be housed as guests in the Gatehouse. I was hoping that the new Baron of Taravanal, Arathanial’s oldest son, Arlastan, could house his party at the Mewstower. That meant I had to go speak to Dara.
I could have simply spoken to her mind-to-mind, as my apprentice, but this wasn’t, technically speaking, an arcane matter. It was a political one. Dara was a fellow noble, and when a liege imposed on a vassal it was traditional to do so in person, or by messenger. I figured it was an excellent excuse for a lovely late winter ride through the Westwood, one of my favorite parts of Sevendor.
In many ways, it was the estate which had changed the least since our arrival. The outer forest we’d harvested when we first came here now had a strong growth of a number of varieties of weirwood saplings, one of Olmeg the Green’s pet projects. It was hedged with long rows of shrubs the herbomancer thought would do well, including some kirsieth bushes
.
But apart from that, the road to the Westwood looked much the same as it had when we came here. Except it was white.
The young man at the wide rope bridge that spanned the chasm between the Westwood and the rest of the vale recognized me and waved me through automatically. The new horse was still nervous on the bridge, but he was getting used to it. I waved to the work parties hanging out laundry in the courtyard of Westwood Hall before I took the newly-made road to the newly-built keep.
Technically speaking, the Mewstower wasn’t a fortress, it was a mews. But when your falconer raises birds with forty-foot wingspans, no normal mews would do. The tower was built on a high shoulder of bare rock extending from the southeast spur of Rundeval, behind my castle. The road took me up a steeply sloping path around the north side of the spur, past the kennels, to the gatehouse.
When I’d given the Karshak the commission to build the place I let Dara direct the design, within reason. Thankfully, she had more good taste and good sense than most nobles with a nearly unlimited budget.
The rounded archway of the gatehouse bore a large stylized hawk, her device, with wings stretching down both sides, mage-carved into the rock by Karshak masons. I knew the eyes were enchanted to glow in the darkness, but in daylight they just stared intently ahead at any who approached.
Though it wasn’t a fortress, the gatehouse of the tower was crenelated, a second story housing the castellan of the keep and his family, her Chief Falconer, Master Arcor. A couple of lads with bows sitting behind those merlons would make it difficult for anyone coming up the road.
The courtyard was long and narrow. It separated the gatehouse by a hundred feet, protected by a wall that enclosed the space against the side of the spur. Sturdy wooden sheds lined the wall, providing the Mewstower with everything a master falconer might need to pursue his craft. Leather sheds, a hatchery, mews, a coldhouse for storing lures and feed, even a smithy. The stables were small, as there were few beasts on this side of the chasm.
The Sky Rider on duty came out to take my horse. Just as I’d given the Karshak free reign with the design of the Mewstower, I’d given Dara the freedom to design her corps of giant hawk riders as she saw fit. She’d adopted a quasi-military organization, similar to a mercenary cavalry regiment.
Each Sky Rider was commissioned into the corps with due ceremony, but only after a grueling training period that included, I was surprised to learn, both the specialized sky combat the corps used but also traditional hand-to-hand and unarmed combat. As part of their rotation, each Sky Rider had to serve a shift at other duties, just as any other military officer did.
Today it was Jagan, a delicate-boned lad not much taller than a Tal. Dara had found him on a farmstead in Hosly when she was visiting Sir Festaran’s home. His limp blonde hair lay flat on his angular head. His malnourished cheekbones were sharp enough to cut cheese with. He looked a lot better fed now than when I’d first met him two years before.
He wore the distinctive leather jack the Sky Riders had adopted as theirs, with Dara’s hawk device on his shoulder. There was a curved dagger, patterned after his mistress’ mageblade, Talon, on his broad flyer’s belt. A sash denoted his temporary duty as officer-of-the-day.
“Baron Minalan!” he greeted me in a high tenor voice as he came out of the hall and grabbed the bridle. “What brings you here?”
“I need to speak with the Hawklady,” I said, looking up at the tower above. The sky beyond was overcast and gray. “Is she in?”
“She is,” he agreed, as I dismounted. “She’s in a mood, though,” he confided.
“Why? Is something amiss with Frightful?”
“Nay, she’s nesting on her eggs like a queen,” the rustic Sky Rider informed me. “No, it was that wizard, Gareth. He was here this morning,” he said, shaking his head. There was a troubled look in his eye.
“What happened?” I demanded, quietly.
Jagan looked up at the tower. “Isn’t my place to say. But I know he went in looking determined, and came out with a wrathful expression, Baron,” he said, barely above a whisper. “It’s common knowledge that he’s set his cap for the lady,” he said. “But . . . well, if he was paying court, it didn’t go well,” he confided. “And it put the lady in a state.”
“Good to know, Jagan,” I nodded, handing him the reigns. “I’ll show myself up.”
The Mewstower is entered through a second gatehouse that was built against the side of the spur, and the first floor of the place was split into storage rooms and the kitchen, closer to the mountain, and a grand hall, overlooking Westwood Hall. It was spacious, and two doors in the western wall, flanking the fireplace, led out to the point of the spur, which the Karshak had carved into a beautiful patio.
I crossed the hall to gain the second staircase, which led through a second floor only slightly smaller than the first, where the eastern side of the keep abutted against the mountain. I knew that Master Guri had plans to cut a tunnel between the Mewstower and my new mountain fortress, eventually, but for now the place was largely deserted.
The third and fourth floors were in the Tower, proper. The round keep was eighty feet in diameter, at the base, but gently sloped inward as it rose. Each level had twenty-foot high ceilings and broad arched windows, a good indoor space for training a bird. The individual Sky Riders had their quarters, here, each assigned to a small, narrow chamber. A permanent magelight hung in the center of the high ceiling. It provided excellent lighting in the shaded hall.
Dara’s personal chambers were above that, on the next level. Her bedchamber and office were on the west side, with windows and a balcony looking out over the hall in which she was born. On the mountain-facing side were the chambers for her other two wing leaders. The high central chamber was a common room, with a central fireplace and another magelight overlooking a triangle-shaped table and several chairs and couches.
Dara wasn’t in either place. I climbed the last flight of spiral stairs to the Mews, proper, my aging knees complaining at the effort.
The Mews for the giant hawks protruded out from the slender, 40-foot-wide tower by twenty feet in every direction. A cunning series of counterweighted snowstone arches allowed the structure to give Dara ample room to nest her largest birds. A dozen more pointed stone arches around the perimeter of the Mews were twenty feet high, and each was crafted into a separate bay. Two of the arches had been left open, allowing the hawks to take wing on command.
Dara was standing near one giant nest, where her first bird, the Silver Headed Raptor named Frightful, was sitting on two eggs the size of ale kegs.
“Master,” she said, evenly, without turning around.
“How is she faring?” I asked, gesturing to the huge hawk.
“She’s fine,” Dara reported, still not looking at me. “She’s trying to calm me down.”
“Why do you need calming?”
“It’s personal,” she nearly snapped. “Is there a reason you walked up all of those stairs?”
“To see the Hawklady of Westwood, and beg a boon from her.”
“Does this have anything to do with the mountain that’s missing?”
“No,” I answered, simply.
“Then it concerns the Prince’s visit,” she said with a heavy sigh.
“Yes, actually. We’re going to have a lot of important guests. I’ve put up the Prince and his family at Sevendor Castle, but I was wondering if you would consider lodging Baron Arlastan and his party here at the Mewstower.”
That’s when she looked up, sharply. She tossed her red curls out of her face and regarded me, her brow furrowed.
“Do you think now is a good time to have a bunch of strangers in the tower?” she demanded. “Frightful is nesting! Anything could set her off!”
It didn’t sound like Frightful was the problem. But I couldn’t mention that, after she’d invoked privacy. “We can insulate the Mews from noise from the tower with magic,” I proposed. “And the barony would cover the cost of feeding th
em.”
“It’s not the money that concerns me,” she said, through clenched teeth. “Now is just a very delicate time. Those eggs will hatch, soon.”
“Dara,” I said, patiently, “I understand – I have my own projects that I’ve had to postpone, because of this annoying pilgrimage.”
“Like making the entire mountain glow, and then vanishing another?” she accused. “You’re screwing around with the Snowflake again, aren’t you?”
“I was,” I admitted. “But it didn’t work out so well. We’ll try again after Tavard is safely gone. It’s part of the spell I’m hoping will fix Alya.”
“I know!” Dara said with a dark sigh. “That’s all you’ve been focused on for months, now. Disappearing with Sire Cei over Yule, and leaving me stuck running the Yule Court, was bad enough. Now you’re back and messing with that . . . that thing!”
“I am,” I agreed. “But not at the moment. At the moment, I want to put about sixty Riverlords up in your keep for a few days, and have you host them as befits the Hawklady of Westwood. After all, Baron Arlastan is an ally, and you will have to deal with him on Sevendor’s behalf frequently, in the coming years. Best you get to know the man, and allow him to get to know you. The charming, sparkling you,” I added, wryly.
“And what do I get out of this?” she asked, sullenly.
“You’re the leading cadet noble house of the barony,” I pointed out. “The opportunity to strengthen ties with an old and prestigious house should be enough. You know, Baron Arlastan has yet to take a wife—”
“That is not a consideration of mine!” she said, adamantly, her nostrils flaring dangerously. I backed off.
“Still, being on friendly terms with the man is a good idea. Give him a tour of the Mews, show him what you’re doing with the Sky Riders and their steeds, and represent your profession and class the best you can.”
“While that does seem a tempting offer, Magelord,” she said, formally, “it is a most inconvenient time . . .”
Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series Page 15