“Junior apprentice,” she corrected with a yawn. “You must be one of Master Minalan’s vassal knights,” she observed, trying to be polite.
“Sir Ryff of Hosendor, at your service, my lady,” he said, bowing at the neck. “I come to Sevendor to fulfill my annual military obligations to the Baron.”
“Well, try not to let any more wars break out, while you’re on duty,” she complained. “I’ve had my fill, for a while.”
“I had heard that the Hawkmaiden was in battle,” Ryff said, chuckling appreciatively. “I had considered it a fancy. But you speak as an old veteran of many campaigns,” he pointed out. “That alone convinces me.”
“Of what does it convince you, my lord?” she asked, as one of the Tal Alon drudges scurried up to her to take her order, wiping her tiny hands on her apron. “Biscuits and porridge, please, Lilac,” Dara requested, politely. “And ale, not milk,” she added. The little furry brown creature didn’t reply, just chittered a little in her own language and curtsied with her apron.
“Hard to get used to those,” Sir Ryff said, conversationally, as Lilac departed. “There are no Riverfolk in Hosendor. But they seem to be decent servants.”
“You should make a tour of Hollyburrow while you are patrolling Sevendor, my lord,” Dara suggested. “That’s where most of the Tal Alon in Sevendor live. In fact, there are few humans left, there. Save for Master Olmeg. That’s where I’ll be going for my lessons, today.”
“Does it bother you, to be around non-humans?” the knight asked as he poured gravy from a steaming pitcher over his biscuits. “I admit, they startled me, when I first saw them.”
“They’re people, just like us,” Dara considered. “Just shaped differently. They’re really quite merry, once you get used to their ways. Yes, I suppose it took a little while to get used to their ways, and how they speak, but . . . well, wait until you meet the Karshak,” she said, referring to the other race of non-humans who were beginning to turn the great mountain into her master’s new fortress. They were known as the Stone Folk for a reason. “Or the Alka Alon. They’re the really amazing non-humans. Next to them, the Tal Alon are pretty tame.”
“What of the . . . gurvani?” Sir Ryff asked, more seriously, as he attacked his plate with his knife and fingers.
Dara suppressed a shudder, unsuccessfully. “The gurvani . . . they look like the Tal, only larger. Bigger ears and eyes. Bigger hands. And their fur is black and wiry, not brown and soft. They fight brutally, and scream the entire time. They’re awful,” she pronounced.
“You’ve fought them?” he asked, surprised. “I thought you helped slay the dragon, at Cambrian?”
“There was a lot going on that day,” Dara admitted. “I wasn’t supposed to be engaging the goblins,” she said, using the precise military term she’d learned. “We were supposed to be in a relatively safe spot, but then our position got overrun. I had to defend myself,” she said, defensively. She still had nightmares about that battle, though – thankfully – they had not come last night.
“Aye, there’s no shame in that, my lady,” agreed Sir Ryff, respectfully. “There are no safe spots, in war,” he said, philosophically.
“I was never trained to be a warrior,” Dara said, not knowing where the words were coming from. “I was a falconer. A wizard’s apprentice. And then I was in the middle of a battle. When the goblins came over the wall, I . . . I . . .”
“You fought for your life,” Sir Ryff said, as casually as if he were discussing the weather. “You drew your blade and struck, because you would have died if you had not.”
“It didn’t feel particularly glorious,” she added, cutting her eyes accusingly at the knight. That brought an unexpected laugh from Sir Ryff.
“My lady, anyone who has been to war and still devotes himself to its glories is a fool. War is the enemy of a good knight,” he said, as if quoting someone. “It demonstrates a lack of good stewardship, in many cases, or a lack of astute leadership, in others. But when war is forced upon us, it is our duty to wage it to the best of our abilities. To end it quickly, and restore order. In truth, I prefer to be a peacetime knight,” he added. “Hunting bandits and keeping the peace leads to a longer life than war. But when war comes, we do our best.”
“Well, my best was enough for one ugly goblin,” she said, sullenly, as Lilac brought her breakfast. “Maybe two.”
“And a dragon,” Sir Ryff said, with a smile, as he chewed. “Don’t forget the dragon. That’s the best part of the story.”
“Milk! Again!” Dara said, suddenly, glaring at her cup. She stared accusingly at Lilac. The Tal Alon drudge chittered at Dara defensively, then just shook her head and retreated back to the buttery.
“Did you not order ale Sir Ryff asked, frowning. “Did she not understand your commands? I thought these . . . creatures were well-trained for service.”
“Oh, she understood, all right,” Dara fumed. “I don’t blame her. Sister Bemia thinks drinking milk at breakfast will make my cheeks rosy and my bones strong, and has prohibited me from ale at breakfast until I’m older. She still treats me as a little girl!”
“In Hosendor, a maiden your age would be near to wed, by now,” Sir Ryff commented, unhelpfully. “Ale or milk would be left to her discretion.”
Before Dara could reply with some biting comment on her desire to wed or the intricacies of the lives of peasant wives, they were interrupted by the arrival of Master Minalan. The Spellmonger looked almost as sleepy as Dara felt. Another late night staring at marbles and muttering to himself, probably, she decided, concerned. He was doing a lot of that, these days.
“Good morning!” her master said, as he took his accustomed seat near the center of the table. He didn’t even have to summon a Tal to give his order – the kitchen knew what he desired for breakfast. “Sir Ryff, how are you faring at Sevendor Castle?”
“It is an amazing place, Magelord,” Sir Ryff affirmed enthusiastically. “I’ve never seen a castle like it. Tell me, are all wizards’ castles so . . . exotic?”
“As there are few enough of them, it would be hard to take a sample, I’m afraid,” Minalan chuckled as a plate of biscuits and sausages was quickly brought to him, along with a pint of honey and a slab of butter to drizzle over his biscuits, as was his practice. It was extravagant – honey was expensive – but he was lord of the castle, and it was one of Minalan’s few personal indulgences, Dara knew. “Indeed, most are away up in the Wilderlands. Less exotic, and drearier, I’d say. But if you think this is interesting, you’ll have to return in the autumn for the Magic Fair,” he suggested. “That’s when wizards from all over the kingdom converge on Sevendor. A week of extraordinary magical revels,” her master said, sounding like a merchant barker in the market. “In fact, I—”
Before he could continue, the big doors at the far end of the Great Hall opened, causing a brief draft despite the spells in place to prevent it. That was curious enough – but explained quickly, when Dara saw who was entering the hall.
Lady Fallawen, in her human-like form, Dara observed. The Alka Alon maiden was dressed as exotically as even Sir Ryff could ask, and she sang a magical tune while she glided through the rushes of the hall. Although “maiden” was not quite the right term, Dara knew. Like her friend Lady Ithalia, the Alkan noblewoman was over three centuries old.
Of course, every sound stopped and every head turned when she made her entrance. Dara, herself, felt a little mesmerized by the vision, though she was more aware than most that much of it was magic. Lady Ithalia had admitted as much, once, when Dara got her alone and in a candid moment. Once you understood that part of the Alkan allure to humans was a simple, if subtle, glamour spell, it lost some of its effect.
Sir Ryff was not aware of it, clearly. The knight’s jaw fell, and his eyes opened wide at the sight of the elegant Alkan. He muttered something under his breath, and then spoke.
“Who is that lady?” he asked in a voice just above a whisper.
She hated to
see the man make a fool of himself, and decided to be generous by spoiling his gawking.
“That, my lord,” she pointed out, “is the famous magic of the Tree Folk. That is Lady Fallawen of the Alka Alon, ambassador to the Magelord and all human lands,” she explained. “And I would counsel you not to stare overmuch, Sir Knight,” she warned. “The lady is a stranger to most of our customs, but she knows rudeness as well as any woman.”
It really was pathetic, the way men acted around the pretty Alka Alon emissaries, Dara thought to herself. Well, beautiful, she conceded. Astonishingly, impossibly beautiful.
Sir Ryff proved immune to her counsel, however, and after looking away for a moment, his gaze was once again drawn irresistibly to the approaching woman.
“Lady Fallawen? Of the Tree Folk?” he asked in a daze. “I had heard the Fair Ones had taken up residence in their tower, but — dear gods, I had no idea they were this fair!”
“Actually,” Dara began, “they live there in name only, at the moment. The real labs and workshops won’t be ready for another year or more. But they’re already planting the peak of Matten’s Helm around their tower with trees of especial virtue. It’s going to be very pretty,” she assured him, solemnly. “But I caution you against demonstrating too much attention to her, my lord.” Did he not realize what an idiot he looked like?
“Why?” he asked, suspiciously. “Would she take offense? She has a lord, perhaps?”
Dara sighed. Just like every other man, when they met one of the transformed Alka. Best kill his interest quickly, if painfully, by explaining the truth of its impossible nature, she decided.
“On the contrary, she may welcome the attention . . . and soon you would be following her around like a puppy. I’ve seen it happen to a couple of poor souls,” she said, remembering the way her brothers and cousins had reacted last year, when the Alka Alon emissaries had appeared at the Magic Fair.
“I . . . I just thought that they were . . . that they might be . . . that they are supposed to be—” he stammered.
“Little? You must understand that the ambassadors utilize magic to appear as fair as they do, and human-sized as well. Ordinarily they’re as small as children, and not nearly as attractive. Lady Fallawen’s transgenic form is particularly beautiful, I think, but they are all fairer than any human woman,” Master Minalan helpfully explained.
“You speak the truth,” Sir Ryff nodded, absolutely smitten. “So beautiful . . .”
Dara couldn’t bear to watch it, anymore. The glazed expression, the stammering, the mindless adoration . . . did Sir Ryff have no respect for himself, Dara wondered. Did he have to gawk like a teenaged boy?
“But as fascinated by us as some of the Tree Folk are, you would never be more than a puppy to her. She’s going to live for centuries. You will be dead before she’s tired of you. Besides, that’s not even her real body,” Dara observed. “If I had the magic to make me look like—”
“Dara!” Minalan said warningly, as sharply as her uncle or father ever had. And for essentially the same reason. She was familiar enough with the transgression: being “in a mood.” Her mouth got her in trouble far more when she felt like this
But they just didn’t understand – they were being beguiled. Yes, Lady Fallawen was beautiful, impossibly beautiful, but as she came to the high table, Dara admitted defeat. She sighed. “It’s just not fair. She was smaller than I was, and—
“Dara!” Minalan prompted, splitting his glance between Sir Ryff and the Emissary. “Do your duty!”
Dara suppressed a groan and stood, bowing. Among the many, many petty duties required of an apprentice was to wait upon her master, facilitating certain elements of protocol and manners . . . like when an emissary of a non-human race visited his hall.
“On behalf of the Magelord of Sevendor I bid you welcome to our humble hall, my lady,” she pronounced. Sir Ryff quickly stood, while Master Minalan came to his feet more slowly.
“Thank you, Lady Lenodara,” Fallawen said, approvingly, shooting Dara a smile. That was the maddening thing about the Alka Alon, Dara muttered to herself. They were so bloody nice, even when they were being infuriatingly superior.
“My Lady Fallawen, to what do we owe the honor of your visit?” Master Minalan asked, after giving the visitor a bow.
“Business, Magelord,” she said, concerned. “I come bearing an invitation for you to meet with the Council of Alkan elders,” she reported. “They gather to address the rise of the Abomination, the invasion, and . . . other matters.”
That was good news, Dara thought. She’d heard Master Minalan and Lady Pentandra, among others, complain about how long it was taking the powerful Alka Alon to commit to fighting against the goblin invasion. Perhaps this was a portent that they were ready to help with the war in a more direct fashion.
“I am gratified to be of service to the Alka Alon, for all you have done for us. When and where will this council be?” Master Minalan asked as he gave her a deep and respectful bow. “As Magelord I have obligations which would make long travel difficult. I am committed to a number of meetings with colleagues, a royal audience, a wizard’s convocation, the Magic Fair this autumn and possibly a war to fight in the next few months,” he listed.
“The council will meet at Carneduin, in the Hall of The Wise,” she informed him. “And it will meet within a few days’ time. All of the lords of the Alka Alon of this realm will be represented. Especially the great houses,” she added.
“Carneduin?” Minalan asked, curiously. Dara had heard of the place, once or twice. It was supposedly one of the fabled secret, hidden kingdoms of the Tree Folk. “That might be a problem. That’s in the Kulines – at least a month’s journey through the Wilderlands before we even make the mountains.”
“Fear not, Magelord. We will be happy to transport you and your retinue to the Council magically, and return you after. You will be our guest, to come and go as you please.”
“Why is the council meeting now?” Master Minalan suddenly asked, suspiciously. Dara knew her master suspected the near-immortals were concealing something from humanity, though he had no clear evidence to base it upon. Yet.
“Because it was the first convenient time in which to do so,” Lady Fallawen replied. “Most thought it would take several years to arrange such a meeting, but . . . recent events have compelled our folk to move with more alacrity.”
Dara was appalled. The goblins had invaded human lands nearly three years ago, by all accounts. So why did the Alka Alon council decide now was the best time, she wondered. There was only one answer that she could think of, based on some of her recent conversations with Lady Ithalia.
“So, you’re still losing refuges to the goblins in the Wilderlands,” Dara observed, boldly.
“That is among the matters we wish to discuss, yes,” Lady Fallawen agreed, sadly. “The Council usually meets every decade or so, a mere formality most of the time. The lords themselves oversee the affairs of their individual territories, and rarely does the council take action. Yet there are many stirrings at hand which need to be discovered, studied, and considered, it is felt. And then, of course, decisions need to be made.”
“And just what is supposed to be decided by this council?” Master Minalan asked, as he casually filled his pipe. That was a sign, too, Dara was learning. When he did it in conversation, it was his way of preparing for a verbal challenge. It also gave him something to point with. “My lifespan, perhaps?”
Dara nearly gasped. She’d never heard Minalan speak so bluntly to the Tree Folk! The Alka Alon and the Spellmonger had been allied for years. While it was understood that not all of the Alka Alon were happy with that alliance, this was the first time that she’d ever heard her master suggest that they might end it. And, perhaps, him.
If Dara’s statement had been bold, Master Minalan’s was audacious.
“Magelord, only the council can give you a satisfactory answer to that,” Lady Fallawen answered smoothly. “But if you will, I wil
l collect you and your party tomorrow evening at Lesgathael,” she invited. “Prepare for a journey of three or four days. You will have no need of food or drink,” she added. “All such things will be provided.”
That seemed to take Master Minalan by surprise. “Wait! I haven’t told you if I’m going or not!”
“You refuse the request?” Lady Fallawen asked, surprised.
“Well, no, I’d give my left stone to go, and I’m just as happy that’s not required. But . . . well, I did mention my schedule. It’s possible I’d have something more pressing.”
Apart from the upcoming Chepstan Spring Fair, Dara couldn’t think of anything that she’d heard about.
“Then if the Magelord doesn’t find himself besieged or attacked by bandits or conquered by a peasant revolt . . . may we count on his attendance?”
“Ah, yes,” Master Minalan replied, fumbling a bit with his pipe. “Of course, I’ll come. And I’ll have my apprentice and a few other advisors on hand, as well, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh!” Dara said, realizing the implications of her master’s suggestion. “Is Lady Pentandra coming?”
“She’s at her estate at the capital,” he reminded her. “Not exactly convenient to Lesgaethael.”
“Nonsense, Magelord,” Fallawen objected. “We can easily include the Lady Pentandra in the council, if you wish. It is a simple enough matter to escort her through a transfer point. There is one nearby her estate. It would be our pleasure.”
“She would be helpful,” Master Minalan said, gratefully. “I value her counsel. If it’s not too much trouble. She can meet us there?”
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