Sky Rider

by Terry Mancour

  By noon the daubers arrived to begin work on the first sections that had been properly wattled. Dara helped the men get started smearing the clay over the woven sticks, learning a bit of the craft of the process she’d done clumsily on her own in the past, and getting entirely dirty.

  Gareth showed up soon afterward to show her how to use magic to dry the mud quickly, without cracking. Of course, she would have to be smeared with mud when he arrived, but the wizard was quick to overlook her appearance when there was magic to be done.

  “It’s actually an easy spell, basic hydromantics, but it requires power to do in any volume,” he explained after he’d demonstrated the spell on the first section of wall, which was now pale and smooth compared to the darker patches of the daubers’ more recent work. “I wouldn’t try to do this without irionite anywhere but here – but with so much snowstone around, even an un-augmented wizard can do it.”

  Dara was eager to try out the enchantment, and for the next few hours she followed the daubers, who were following the wattlers, around the lower story of the mews and hardening in moments with magic the clay and straw mixture that should have taken days or even weeks to cure.

  She and Gareth were intently working on the project when an unexpected sound came from the trail.

  Dara was surprised to hear hoofbeats at all arising from the trail up to the site, and even more surprised to see Sir Festaran atop his charger, in full armor, come over the rise into the clearing where she was building her mews. Even after the trail was improved it was still too narrow and winding for larger carts, forcing most of the lumber and stone to be laboriously brought up by wheelbarrow – and even that was treacherous along parts of the grade. Rumel had suggested building a crane to assist in the project, but Dara was already on treacherous ground with her father. She didn’t need to rub his face in her disobedience with a wooden crane looming over his estate.

  “I bid you a fair day, my lady,” Sir Festaran said, as he surveyed the busy worksite. “To think this was barren wilderness a few weeks ago. It seems you’ve made much progress since you began.”

  Dara, suddenly even more self-conscious of how sweaty, dirty, and unkempt she must look to the knight in her work smock, did her best to straighten and address him as properly as he’d addressed her.

  “The strong arms and cunning hands of the Malkas Alon make the work go quickly,” she agreed. “What brings you to my mews, Sir Festaran? Surely you did not ride all this way to check my progress.”

  “Nay, I have been ordered to patrol the vales beyond Caolan’s Pass in search for bandits sooner than expected,” he reported, casually. “Sire Cei has received yet two more reports of them haunting the roads west of Sevendor. They are beginning to make merchants wary of carrying their trade to here. The Dragonslayer begins to suspect that someone makes secret war on us.”

  “Really?” Dara asked, suddenly concerned. “Why would anyone want to do that?”

  “Any number of reasons,” Gareth replied, coming up behind her while wiping his hands. “To destabilize the Magelord’s rule, to undermine the confidence of artisans and merchants doing business with Sevendor, and sometimes a lord will conduct such nasty business in preparation for a raid, or war.”

  “Don’t forget base revenge, my friend,” Sir Festaran reminded the wizard. “War is a nasty business, and it’s rarely over in men’s hearts even after the accords are signed. Many were dispossessed when the Warbird was defeated. Some may take to the roads instead of finding more honest work, and some may owe their fallen estate to the Spellmonger. Regardless, Sire Cei has tasked me to clear the roads of such obstructions,” he declared. “And as it is customary in such missions, I come to beg some token of Lady Lenodara’s favor to carry with me on the road, and perhaps into battle,” he said, formally.

  “What?” Dara asked, dumbly, before her mind could shut her mouth.

  “It is customary for a knight on the eve of a mission to seek absolution in chapel – which I have done – prepare and rally his men, and to seek a token from a woman he holds in high esteem, to bring him comfort and resolution in times of danger,” Festaran explained. “As my mother and sister are in Hosly, I elected to ask you, whom I hold in dear affection and highest, for the honor,” Sir Festaran pronounced.

  Dara was stunned. Here she was, covered in mud and dressed like she should be . . . covered in mud, and she was expected to respond to a young knight’s formal request . . . for a slip of embroidery.

  She was aware of the custom, of course, though not from growing up in the Westwood. When she’d been in Barrowbell, after that awful battle, she’d attended tournaments in which her new friends amongst Barrowbell society had been asked for such an honor by the various knights at joust or in pretend combat. In Barrowbell the maidens would usually offer the gold and silver necklaces that were in fashion for such token gifts.

  Dara knew that in the Riverlands a maiden of noble birth (or at least noble aspirations) would often embroider her family arms and perhaps her name, if she could read, on a slip of fine cloth specifically in hopes that a handsome young knight would ask her for one, someday. The legends and lore were filled with tales of men who were near to giving up against great challenges, and were only buoyed by the sight of his lady’s favor.

  It was a silly tradition, Dara thought, and one she’d never expected to have to participate in. After all, she was a wizard’s apprentice and a falconer . . . but she was also ennobled, now, she reminded herself. Her brief acquaintance with knights and squires at Sevendor Castle had exposed her to just how seriously the cult of chivalry took such things. It was a matter of honor, she knew, and to refuse to grant it would bruise Sir Festaran’s.

  She felt everyone’s eyes on her, as the Malkas Alon stopped work, and the daubers she’d been helping were staring. Dara had never felt more self-conscious. She was wearing a wool smock, trousers, and boots – boots, for Flame’s sake! She wore no jewelry, just the belt of pouches with falconry and magic supplies.

  She was about as far from the picture of a fair maiden as one could ask.

  Frantically, her hands dug around in her pouches while her mouth stammered and stuttered, trying to find the right words – or any words at all – while she searched for something personal.

  “I, uh, of course wish you all the, um, best success in your mission, Sir Festaran,” she stumbled as her fingers busily searched. A pair of worn-out jesses that needed repair, a battered lure for Frightful and her hood, a few scraps of dried meat – nothing suitable. “I would be honored – honored,” she repeated, with some attempt at gravity, “to give you a token to bear . . .” Cinders and ash, a chivalric token was supposed to be something personal, even intimate! she chided herself. You can’t give a knight going on mission a piece of broken leather thong!

  Her sorcery pouch had little to offer – a charcoal stylus, a few scraps of parchment for notes, some string – why did she have string? – a sliver of Roan Coral, for helping her manifest magesight (something she hadn’t needed in weeks), A stub of candle, a tiny blade . . . and then her fingers wrapped around a small, hard object that was both smooth and rough. She recalled what it was, when she put it there, and who was there when she did so.

  It wasn’t a daintily-embroidered token of favor, but it was personal, in a way, she reasoned. In the absence of a better alternative, it would have to do.

  “I give you, therefore, this token of my favor,” she said, with a hint more confidence in her voice as she withdrew the small sliver of wood. “If you recall, you were there when I discovered it,” she reminded him. “Alas, I have no better token than this, at the moment, but I do hope the memory of that day will bring some comfort and amusement to you on your journey,” she said, offering the piece of weirwood to him.

  “Ah! Yes, your ruined wand!” the knight chuckled, as he reverently took the stick and placed it within his armor. “Your pup chewed on it. You were so vexed, that day! A most fitting token from a magelord maiden,” he approved.
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  “It is useless as a wand, now, and was but an essay in my craft,” she explained. “But if you would consent to bear it as a token of our mutual affection and admiration, I would be honored.”

  “It is you who honor me, my lady,” Sir Festaran said, bowing from the saddle. “Thank you for your blessing. I’m off to Caolan’s Pass with a squadron of men-at-arms, now. I should return within the week,” he added.

  Dara nodded, and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, Sir Festaran and Gareth, both, were staring at her.

  “Did you offer a prayer for me, my lady?” the knight asked, softly, clearly touched by the idea.

  “Nay, I spoke with your horse,” she replied with a smirk. “He tells me to pass along that his left rear shoe is coming loose, and needs attention from a farrier. And also to give him more carrots,” she smiled. “But may the Flame guide you back home safely to Sevendor,” she added.

  The knight grinned in reply. “It takes some getting used to working with wizards. Rear left shoe, more carrots. Farewell, then, my friends,” he said, nimbly guiding his charger back down the narrow trail. The big horse managed it with far more grace than Dara thought possible. Festaran really was a superior horseman.

  “A handsome knight rides up to you and asks you for your favor, and you give him . . . a chewed-up stick?” Gareth asked, when Festaran was safely out of earshot.

  “Who knew my sister’s insistence on accessorizing would actually mean something some day?” Dara asked, flaring her nostrils in irritation. “Cinders and ash, who came up with that stupid custom? A girl can’t just go carrying around a bunch of junk on the off-chance a knight is going to . . . who makes up these stupid rules, anyway?” she demanded, to no one in particular.

  The Malkas Alon and the daubers hurriedly returned to work, though they were still paying attention to her as she ranted.

  “It was the best I could do, okay? I wasn’t exactly prepared for that sort of thing – just look at me! And that piece of weirwood was useless for anything beyond the basic, after Cinder chewed on it. But her puppy teeth were coming in, and it was the best consistency . . .”

  “Thankfully you hadn’t charged it,” Gareth observed, “else your puppy could have gotten an unpleasant surprise.” He was right, she knew. She’d been lectured often enough on how unexpected damage to a magical enchantment could result in unexpected – and sometimes explosive – results. Tyndal had once even blown up a bunch of goblins doing that sort of thing on purpose. According to Tyndal.

  “No, I’d merely laid down some elementary enchantments,” Dara said, shaking her head. “I hadn’t gotten to powering it, yet. Nothing dramatic, like a warwand, either,” she said, defensively, as they slowly walked back to the mews. “Just some spells Master Olmeg wanted me to try.”

  “No harm done, then,” Gareth nodded, sagely, tipping back his broad-brimmed hat. “And as Festaran is, technically, a knight mage, I suppose it’s appropriate. Because most young knights, when offered a chewed-up old stick, might reconsider the affection in which they hold the maiden who offered it.”

  “I did the best I could on short notice,” Dara said, sullenly. “Flame scorch me if I could have done better.”

  Gareth continued to follow her back to the daubing, when he suddenly stopped.

  “Hey, wasn’t that the weirwood blank that I gave you?” he asked, suddenly. There was a hint of jealousy in his voice.

  Dara groaned. Some days the Flame warmed you. Some days the Flame burned you.

  ***

  Work progressed on the mews day after day. The timber frame of the second story was complete about the same time as the wattlers and daubers finished the lower story, so they were able to get right to work, once the scaffolding they needed was built by the Malkas. The dwarves then got to work on the rafters, a somewhat more exacting bit of work. Still, seeing them pick up timbers it would take three men to carry and flip them to their fellows atop the mews was impressive.

  As the laborers completed the structure, other matters took up Dara’s time and kept her from overseeing the project as closely as she wished. Her magical lessons continued with Master Olmeg and Zagor the Hedgewizard. She had to learn to integrate the magical runes she was learning into ever-more complex ways, to execute more complicated spells. Sometimes that meant hours of study in her room or in the library, sometimes that meant sitting for what seemed like eternity in one spot, mediating, raising arcane power, and shaping it to her will.

  It was, in its way, more grueling than hefting buckets of mud, heavy boards or bundles of hazel wands. And far less satisfying, when she failed. Simple location spells were easy, of course, but when her masters required her to attach other spells to that foundation, she began to have difficulties. It was as hard as keeping two entirely different songs in your head at the same time, and then making them sound good, she reflected after one particularly long day in mediation.

  Yet with practice came competence. She was elated when she’d managed to combined the simple ignition cantrip most wizards knew with both the scaling rune isteth and one of the runes of reversal, almorath. It took her all day to figure out how to do it to gain the desired effect: bringing a blazing fire to life, and then just as quickly extinguishing it.

  “You’re not investing enough ego in the outcome,” Master Olmeg criticized, when she’d demonstrated the spell to him in her master’s tower workshop one afternoon. “It’s as if you are asking the fire to go away, not telling it.” Though Olmeg was as kind and helpful as anyone she’d ever met when it came to his estates, he was Imperially-trained, like Master Minalan. And he was more demanding than she’d expected.

  “In the Westwood, we swear by the Flame,” Dara reminded the Green Mage. “Making it go out seems . . .”

  “Sacrilegious?” Olmeg smiled. “I suppose I can understand that. My dear, we often spend our entire lives overcoming the superstitions and unlearned beliefs of our childhood. While I’m certain your people’s reverence for fire is both devout and justified, I remind you that a good wizard sees herself beyond the limits of those beliefs by definition,” he explained.

  “Like knowing that our people didn’t originally come from Callidore, and that we and the Alka Alon are merely . . . visiting?”

  The wizard looked surprised. “You seem to understand a lot, for an apprentice so young.”

  “I was at the Alka Alon Council,” she reminded him. “I kept my ears open.”

  “What a magnificent opportunity!” the big wizard sighed, enviously. “And it seems you didn’t squander it, to bring understanding of those facts back to Sevendor. Few even among the Wise truly understand our history.

  “Here, that understanding can serve you: just as you know that we did not spring from the boredom of the gods, as many sects insist, and came to this world instead a whole people, then you can also understand that extinguishing a fire is not probably going to offend the Fire Goddess.”

  “We just call it the Flame,” Dara said, “but I see what you mean. As a wizard I know that fire is just rapid oxidation,” she reasoned. “A plasmatic burst of energy from the chemical combustion of the elements. Fuel, air, fire,” she recited. “But in the Westwood, the Flame sees all. It warms our hall and cooks our food. It keeps the terrors of the night at bay, and serves as a beacon to guide us home. The Flame is a . . . it’s a living thing, to a Westwoodman,” she said, defensively.

  “The two ideas are not contradictory, nor mutually exclusive,” soothed Olmeg. “Indeed, the strength of the wizard often lies in holding two such ideas in mind at once, and believing in both of them with equal sincerity.”

  “That doesn’t seem to make much sense,” Dara said, frowning.

  “Magic often doesn’t make much sense, in the conventional meaning of the term,” Olmeg admitted with a smile. “That’s what makes wizards so . . . interesting, to the rest of society. Our trade is half scholarship, half madness, it has been said,” he continued, philosophically. “Our ability to see the sa
me thing from several different perspectives can make us incredibly useful, and incredibly dangerous. Seeing the subject of fire as both an arcane alchemical phenomenon and a cultural and religious symbol of great importance, for instance.”

  “I suppose the Westwoodmen are unusual,” Dara mumbled. She’d long gotten used to the way outsiders viewed her family’s reverence for the Flame, even though the Narasi personified the Flame as Briga, the Fire Goddess.

  “Oh, not at all,” Olmeg disagreed. “Indeed, such dichotomies are common. And important. Your folk view fire in much the same way the Sea Lords saw the ocean gods,” he observed. “Both are powerful natural, elemental forces which provide prosperity for a people, as well as great danger. The Sea Lords were rightly wary of the capricious nature of the ocean, the weather, and the very dangers that brought them fortune.”

  “And the Westwoodmen revere fire because we’re essentially foresters,” Dara concluded.

  “Essentially,” Olmeg agreed, pleased. “While providing firewood is not your estate’s most important function, the utter necessity for cultivating trees for that basic purpose elevated fire to extreme importance for your folk, I would conjecture. You cannot have fire without fuel, and that flame provides much of what your people find essential: food, warmth, shelter, comfort, security. Yet you also understand just how destructive that force is.”

  Dara shuddered. “Yes, a forest fire is one of the things the Westwoodmen fear most. More than war.”

  “Undoubtedly. Just as the Sea Lords see a tempest as the inevitable rage of the sea that feeds and enriches them. Both of your cultures revere that which provides both prosperity and promises destruction, if proper care isn’t taken.