“The meaning of what?” Gareth asked, confused, before Dara could speak.
“Of . . . of all of this!” he said, waving the parchment around. “I hear tale from the sentry that a work crew of Karshak and a wizard crossed at dawn this morning, and suddenly there is a road up the side of the mountain that I do not recall being here last week!”
“Oh,” Gareth said. “I put it there yesterday,” he said, as he dusted off his hands.
“But . . . but at whose direction?” Kamen demanded.
“Mine,” Dara said, stepping into the clearing after adjusting her mantle.
“I told you ‘no,’ Dara!” her father said, hotly.
“I took your refusal to use estate resources into consideration,” Dara said, evenly. “I adapted.”
“We spoke on this!” Kamen hissed, his eyes wide. “I thought I made my position clear!”
“You did. As did I. I need a mews. It needs to be here. You weren’t doing anything with the rock, so I did.”
“No one builds in the Westwood without my leave!” Kamen thundered. “I am Master of the Wood!”
“Which is why I submitted the requisition for the lumber I’ll need to you,” Dara continued, reasonably. “Is that the list, there?” she asked, innocently.
“This?” he asked, brandishing the parchment in his fist. “Yes, I received this list quite unexpectedly, just after I’d heard that foreign workers were tramping through the Westwood! Are you mad, Dara?”
“Are you incapable of fulfilling it?” she asked. “Please let me know soon, so that I can find alternate sources of lumber. I would hate to take the trade away from the estate, after already depriving it of the wages it has lost to ‘foreigners,’ but . . .”
“There’s nearly a hundred trees worth of lumber on this list!” he said, angrily. “Do you have any idea how much that will cost?”
“I believe I figured up the estimated payment on the left of each listed lot,” Dara said, trying hard not to shrink from the full force of her father’s fury. It was difficult. She resolved to maintain a professional, adult demeanor, no matter how much she wanted to either shrink or shriek. “I consulted with the head timberman for the estate to establish the fair market value.”
“Dara! Stop this at once!” Kamen demanded. “You are defying my authority!” he warned.
“I am overriding your authority,” she corrected, sharply. “And I am acting in accordance with the wishes of my liege.”
“Minalan put you up to this?” Kamen asked. “Does he not have the courage to face me himself?”
“The Magelord made his wishes known to me,” Dara explained. “He told me to provide an adequate space for the new hawks he purchased . . . in the Westwood. And his new falconer,” she reminded him.
“Which I have done!” Kamen insisted. “The man and his assistant eat at my board every day! They dwell in our guest house! I’ve provided the largest empty shed I have available!”
“And it is inadequate,” Dara countered. “Master Arcor is probably a good enough falconer to keep those birds alive, this winter, even in that shed, but unless they have a proper mews they will never be able to hunt properly. The longer they are in poor conditions, the more likely they are to perish. The location you proposed for the mews was inadequate, as well,” she continued, not daring to stop once she began. “Master Minalan favors this spot for the mews. So, in fulfilling his wishes, I have begun construction. Without estate resources,” she added.
“So how are you paying for it?” Kamen demanded.
“The workmen will present bills for payment to you against my account,” Dara said, every word painful to speak. “You may deduct it from my savings. The estate may also charge against my savings for the lumber,” she added.
“And if I refuse to honor those bills?” Kamen asked, hotly.
“Then you will be summoned to appear before the baron in court and answer why,” Dara said, evenly.
She knew her best advantage in this situation was to remain calm. The moment she let herself get emotional, there was no telling what direction her feelings would take her or what her mouth might say. She was suddenly glad to have the discipline and training of magic. Losing your temper during a spell could have catastrophic effects. Losing your temper during a serious argument with your father, Dara reasoned, could be worse.
Kamen started to reply, but then thought better of it. Instead, he took a deep breath.
“I have given you my injunction, as Master of the Wood, to cease labor on this site,” he said, struggling to maintain his calm. “As for the bills, I will not honor them, when presented. Nor will the Westwood provide lumber to you. There are more pressing clients to attend,” he said, stiffly.
“A pity,” Dara sighed. “Securing the timber from elsewhere will add costs to the project I had hoped to avoid. But very well. As long as it is mage-kilned, it matters not where it originates.” With that she turned her back on her father and pointed at the four Karshak. “Back to work, gentlemen! At half-an-ounce of silver a day, I’d like to see every bit of that value!”
“How much are you paying them?” Kamen gasped. “That’s four times what a workman is paid! Dara, you’re being robbed!”
“That is none of your concern!” she snapped. “Besides, the Karshak are as strong as four men, and work more quickly than most. I am satisfied with my crew,” she assured him.
“And what are you doing with the rock?” he demanded, as Gareth began to sketch out another spell. Already a large pile of gravel represented what was left of the highest protuberance on the south side of the knob.
“Flattening the building site,” Gareth explained, helpfully. “With a hall the size we’re building, we need to start with as level a foundation as possible. With magic we can prepare the site with exacting precision,” be bragged, as he waved toward the massive pile of gravel. “When I’m done, a few lads with rakes and wheelbarrows can redistributed the gravel. Whatever we don’t reduce to sand to build into the hall. I’m still curious as to what we’ll need,” he admitted.
“Sorcery!” Kamen growled. Dara rolled her eyes. That was the typical reaction people who were unfamiliar with magic had when they saw it.
“A fairly elementary interspatial segmenting enchantment scaled up to handle the field-of-effect we need, actually,” Gareth corrected. “Applied thaumaturgy. It’s simple enough that Dara could do it herself. I’m just much faster.”
“And far more expensive,” Dara added. “So, if you don’t mind letting my men get back to work, I would appreciate it. You’re costing me money.”
She watched her father turn his back and depart the knob without another word. She didn’t realize that she was holding her breath until he was entirely out of sight. The she exhaled, sharply.
“That . . . was very tense,” Gareth observed, quietly. “Are you certain you don’t want to involve Minalan?”
“Master Minalan has his hands full,” Dara replied. “This is a Westwood matter, now. I don’t need his assistance.”
“What if he doesn’t pay?” Gareth asked. “You can take him to court, but that could take months.”
“I’ll have to find other means, then, if he won’t give me funds. I suppose I can . . . borrow the money, for now. Or maybe sell something.” Of course, she realized, all she had of value was in her father’s possession. She didn’t care. She was determined to find a way.
The look on her father’s face had determined that. She had never seen Kamen that angry . . . ever. Not even when he was contending with old Sir Urantal. To know that she had inspired that depth of anger assured her: she had come too far to back down, now.
***
Dara nearly stomped back to the castle that night, her emotions flaring like lighting. She was both angry about her father’s reaction and pleased with the amount of progress that Rumel and his crew had made. Gareth had flattened and smoothed the rough top of the knob with magic until it was ready for the cornerstones that would support the foundati
on. Though much of the afternoon had been spent just positioning stakes and making notes on a leaf of parchment, Dara was exhausted.
But she still walked the entire way back to the castle, rather than eat her supper at Westwood Hall again. She did not want to chance running into her father again so soon after their confrontation. Dara got back just in time for the porridge course in the Great Hall.
She slid onto the end of the bench at the high table, grateful that neither Master Minalan nor Sire Cei were present; she did not want them to see her face and ask her what was wrong. Instead, she tried to calm herself and conceal her feelings while she ate.
And she planned.
Perhaps her father thought she would react like a child, either by bringing her master into the discussion or throwing a childish fit. Dara resolved to do neither. She was a wizard, after all, and wizards knew how to plan. You couldn’t put together any kind of serious spellwork without understanding the proper elements in the proper order toward a specific goal. Building the mews was just a variation of that skill, she reasoned. Her father’s opposition was no different than the challenges she faced in building a spell. Or teaching Frightful to hunt.
She was nearly lost in the details of plans and contingencies to plans when she was joined by Sir Ryff of Hosendor, the vassal knight who was spending the season at the castle. Sir Ryff greeted her politely as he sat down, inquiring about her health before downing half a tankard of ale in one swig.
“Thirsty work, patrolling,” he sighed as he set the mug back down. “I led a squadron north to keep watch on the roads, during the Fair,” he reported.
“No hordes of goblins or enemy armies lurking in the woods?” Dara asked.
“Nay, just a few poor souls squatting along the frontiers,” Sir Ryff said, shaking his head. “Not even any outlaws, just villeins without a village. The bandits have all been to the west, down Sashtalia way. Rough country, that, even before the war. Now its filled with deserters and robbers. That will likely be my next destination for patrol,” he reflected.
Bandits had been a persistent problem for the folk of the Bontal Vales, particularly in the hilly regions around Sevendor. All her life Dara had heard horrid tales of shifty men on the road who would waylay travelers and threaten their lives until they had given over their valuables. Some poor travelers who did not satisfy the evil men were badly beaten, or even killed. Others were taken hostage until their families could pay a ransom.
It was a bloody business, one that made honest folk shudder. There seemed to be no end to the bandits, either. Things had gotten particularly bad around Sevendor after the Warbird’s disastrous siege, Sir Ryff explained, when many men-at-arms and common soldiers had been released from service suddenly, without pay, and left to make their own way home. Not all of them had done that. Despite the opportunities now available in Sevendor, there were still some folk who preferred stealing to performing an honest day’s labor.
Indeed, it was Sevendor’s recent prosperity that had led to the increase in banditry, Gareth had explained to her, once. When Sevendor was just a poor hill domain, there was little reason to prey on its folk. But once the Magelord took power and started to build, the roads leading to it were far busier with merchants and artisans on business. That traffic was the nectar that sustained the shifty men of the Vales.
“It is a lord’s duty to patrol the roads of his domain, of course,” Sir Ryff continued, “and to render justice to any caught violating the Law. Alas, bandits are elusive and clever. The good ones, anyway,” he added with a chuckle.
“Do you have many bandits in Hosendor?” Dara asked. Sir Ryff’s domain was actually quite close to Sevendor, on a map, but the impassable ridgeline to the east forced travelers between the two domains to take the long way around.
“A few,” he admitted. “Not many – Huin be praised, we’ve had decent harvests for the last few years, and no one is hungry or desperate enough to resort to banditry. And the good ones are smart enough to make themselves scarce when they’re being hunted. But in my father’s time there was a famous band who ranged there. They made quite a bit of coin kidnapping and threatening travelers. Until father hung six of them.”
Dara nodded. She didn’t like hearing about such things, but then bandits were horrible people who did horrible things. Justice could be grim, sometimes, she reflected.
Sir Ryff’s tales provided a welcome distraction from Dara’s problems. The life of a country knight was very different from the life of a wizard’s apprentice – and whatever else she was. It soon became more distracting when the knight rose suddenly, his neck craned toward the door.
“Is that . . .?” he breathed, suddenly captivated.
“That’s Lady Ithalia,” Dara sighed, when she saw who had his attention. The great door of the hall had opened and the unmistakable figure of a transformed Alka Alon was approaching the High Table. “She’s another Emissary. Avalanti kindred,” she added, showing off her new-found knowledge.
“Oh,” Sir Ryff sighed, returning to his seat. Dara was surprised at his loss of enthusiasm.
“Is she not as beautiful as Lady Falwallen?” she asked, confused.
“Oh, certainly,” Sir Ryff shrugged. “But once one has seen the glories of dawn, the magic of twilight seems lessened. She is a beautiful woman, but my eye longs for another glimpse of Lady Falwallen,” he assured her.
Dara stared at the knight. What he had said had been nearly poetry, she realized.
Before she could reflect further on the unexpected explanation, Lady Ithalia arrived at the table. Dara dutifully stood and greeted her, as did Sir Ryff.
“Dara, could you meet me in the high meadow in the morning, with Frightful?” she asked, glancing at the knight a moment before addressing her.
“Sure,” Dara agreed. “Did your grandmother send more . . . falconry tips?”
“Among other things,” Ithalia nodded, smiling. “I think you will be pleased.”
“My lady,” Sir Ryff interrupted, “is there any chance that Lady Falwallen will be in attendance?” he asked, hopefully.
“Nay, my lord,” Ithalia said, sympathetically. “She is ensconced in Laesgathel, deep in council with her father by magic. The Spellmonger upset a great many things at Carneduin,” she explained. “The Emissaries are all trying to calm their respective kindreds, now.”
“Her father?” Sir Ryff asked, with interest.
“One of the great lords of the Alka Alon,” Ithalia reported. “He rules fair Anthatiel, the City of Rainbows, in the far Mindens. Nor is he well-disposed to her fascination with the humani, I’m afraid. Or the humani in general.”
“That’s what they call ‘humans’,” Dara explained to the knight. “Considering he was already long-established before humans ever came to Callidore, I guess I can see his point.”
“What?” Sir Ryff asked, confused. “Why would he dislike us?”
“We’re too big, too loud, ignorant, dirty, we don’t live long enough to have a decent conversation, and we smell funny,” Dara shrugged. “What’s not to dislike?”
Ithalia wrinkled her nose. “A blunt way of putting it, Dara, but not untrue,” she sighed. “Her father has never forgiven the Council for allowing your people to settle the mainland, and he is stubborn, even among the Alka Alon. He is even less happy that the humani have stirred up the gurvani on his very doorstep.”
“We didn’t start that!” Dara defended.
“From his perspective, you did when you invaded the gurvani territory two centuries ago, just after his daughter was born,” Ithalia countered. “Thus you see the difficulty of communication between the two civilizations. Thankfully, many of us are willing to overcome those difficulties. My cousin Astalia, for instance – did you enjoy your time with her at Carneduin, Dara?”
“Oh, yes, she was a lot of fun,” Dara assured. “She showed me . . .” she said, trailing off as she looked at Sir Ryff. How would the ignorant country knight react to the mysteries that had been revealed to her
in the Hall of Memories? Not well, she decided. “She showed me a lot of fascinating things,” Dara finished, simply.
“Astalia is one of the brightest minds of the Avalanti,” Ithalia said, proudly. “She’s said to resemble my grandmother in temperament and intelligence, as well as her interest in the humani. I had hoped you two would become friends.”
“Why would you want her to be friends with me?” Dara asked.
“Because you are destined to become one of the most important wizards of the age, I think,” Ithalia said, thoughtfully. “Establishing good friendships between our peoples will be key to the next few decades. Perhaps you and Astalia will work together, some day,” she predicted. “It is good you got to know each other. But now we have other matters to attend to. I’ll see you on the morrow, Dara. Good evening, Sir Ryff.”
“You see why a relationship with an Alka Alon maiden is unlikely, Sir Ryff?” Dara asked, as Ithalia left the hall. “By the time I’m an old woman, my friend Astalia will still be a little girl, among her folk. Even if Lady Falwallen did return your affections, your entire life would be little more than a brief distraction to her. And that’s not even considering the fact that her father apparently hates humans.”
Sir Ryff sighed. “Ever do the gods place insurmountable obstacles in the path of a knight,” he declared. “Ever should the knight strive to overcome them!”
Knights are idiots, Dara reflected, not for the first time. She had enough sense not to say so, of course – that would be rude. She had a lot of respect for the dedication it took to become a knight. Getting knocked off your horse in full armor over and over again apparently addled your brain, though.
“No doubt if you persevere and prove your worth, she’ll come around,” Dara encouraged, instead. She didn’t really believe it, but she knew knights liked hearing that sort of thing.
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