“Now consider that magic does nothing to diminish that perspective,” Olmeg proposed. “Indeed, our understanding of the simple manifestation of plasmatic rapid oxidation is enhanced by the cultural importance of fire, not diminished. And it can be used to fuel intent and will,” he explained. “For instance . . . you mentioned something about the fire perceiving things. That’s a common understanding of flame: that it is a manifestation of life, not an alchemical reaction. That fire – which provides our light in the darkness, allowing us to see – is an eternal witness of events that occur in its presence.
“So use that,” he suggested, gently. “Surely there have been times when you were afraid of saying or doing things because you were concerned the fire would witness it?”
Dara snorted. “All the time. It becomes second nature to the Westwoodmen. We take that sort of thing more seriously than the Narasi do with Briga.”
“So when you perform the banishment, fuel your intent with the desire to remove that witness. Right now you are acting from fear, and that is fueling a hesitancy in your mind. Magic despises indecisiveness,” he reminded her. “Convince yourself not that you want the fire gone, but that you want – nay, that you demand – privacy, and allow that to lie in the back of your mind as you perform the spell. It’s a subtle distinction,” he cautioned. “But a good wizard understands such subtleties as a matter of course.”
Dara nodded and composed herself. It was, indeed, a fundamental shift in her approach to the spell. She was learning that just constructing the runes and filling them with power was not enough for a wizard to achieve a desired result – it really mattered what you felt in your heart. The construction was inherently influenced by desire and intent, and a flawed understanding of her own mind could sabotage the arcane Will necessary to get the desired result.
Sometimes magic made her head hurt.
But she took a deep breath and took Olmeg’s advice to heart. In that moment, she released the power she’d built and allowed it to flow into the runic construction of the spell, which transformed the energy in useful ways. She opened her eyes when the heat of the flames touched her face. Then she closed them again and felt them not as mere fire, but a manifestation of the Flame. The ever-watchful, ever-present resident of Westwood Hall. The protective spirit of all the Westwoodmen’s tiny culture. The ultimate witness and arbiter of truth.
She’d spent much of her childhood worried that the Flame would see her being naughty. She knew that feeling well. As she’d grown older and become more sophisticated, she came to understand the superstition for what it was. But it did not keep her from wanting to avoid the gaze of the Flame if she wanted privacy. That, too, was a feeling she knew well.
As Dara manifested that desire, and transformed it into Will, the runes cooperated. The flame on the hearth died in an instant.
“Well done, Dara!” Olmeg praised. “Now practice that for a few days until you can do it automatically,” he instructed. “Then we’ll add the hamuseth rune to keep flame from combusting in a chosen field. Once you add the sustaining rune alserteth, you then have the basis for a flamewarding. That’s one of the spells that’s a common spellmonger’s stock-in-trade. And a handy one for anyone living in a wood.”
“Can I hang on to the witchstone for a few days?” Dara asked. “I understand you want me to learn without it, but it is a lot easier for me to master the form if I’m not spending so much time raising power,” she proposed.
“For a few days only,” Olmeg decided, reluctantly. “You are young, yet, to contend with such power regularly. I fear you may extend yourself beyond your ability to bear.”
“I won’t misuse it,” Dara assured him, sincerely . . . but not truthfully. “I’m hoping I can get ahead with the next staff of runes before I return it.”
“That would be ambitious,” chuckled Olmeg. “You’ve mastered nearly all the basic staves. You can perform cantrips upon demand. You are quickly mastering third-order spellwork. Before you tackle the next staves, you need to have a more fundamental understanding of some advanced thaumaturgical principles,” he advised. “Dara, you are already making splendid progress. There is no need to rush through the fundamentals,” he lectured.
“All right, all right, but it will allow me to throw magelights everywhere,” she grumbled, earning another chuckle from the ordinarily-laconic wizard. Dara suspected he actually enjoyed teaching her, in Minalan’s absence. “By the way, could I possible borrow a few books from the library?” she asked. “If I’m not going to work on the next staves, then I probably should read a bit more,” she reasoned. Olmeg was delighted to see her interest, and insisted she select two of the valuable volumes to read in her spare time.
As if she had spare time.
In fact the books she chose were for Nattia, a kind of bonus to the falconer’s apprentice to thank her for her help in both the mews and the giant falcon projects. Dara selected a scroll entitled A Brief History Of The Bontal Vales, which someone had likely purchased from Sendaria or the Chepstan Fair. The second book was longer, and more specialized: A Legend Of Plants, Wildlife and Birds Of the Riverlands, Including Natavia And Importasta Varieties. It was written nearly a hundred years ago by a monk whose name she didn’t recognize, and by the dust that arose from its leaves she doubted it had seen many readers.
But Nattia was fascinated by the subjects of history and natural history, and Dara knew she would devour the books eagerly.
For Dara’s part, the request was partially to cover for her acquisition of her witchstone. Ordinarily she was only permitted to carry it if she was in a lesson which required it, but she’d been given custody of the powerful artifact a few times, now, and she hadn’t blown anything up, yet. She was counting on that complacency to keep Olmeg and the other wizards of Sevendor from overseeing what she was planning.
With the witchstone, she knew, she could power spells that could aid her in finishing the mews much faster. Not even Gareth had his own shard of irionite – at least not yet – and he was a fully credentialed wizard. But with the young man’s help and access to the stone, there were a lot of magical shortcuts they could employ to speed up how soon the birds could be moved into the place. And Master Arcor and Nattia, she added to herself, guiltily. The sooner that happened, the sooner the awkward situation with her father could be resolved.
As she was taking her books back to her room, Cinder found her, pouncing playfully on her ankles. If she had been wearing slippers, like a proper castle lady, and not muddy boots the pup’s sharp teeth would have hurt. As it was, Dara just dragged the growling puppy down the corridor toward her quarters on her foot.
Things were progressing, she reflected as she opened her door. The mews was getting built, despite her struggles. She counted her progress in her lessons today as significant, too. And now that she had access to her stone for a little while, she wanted to experiment a little with Frightful in her giant form . . . before Ithalia came back.
It wasn’t that she was worried she was doing something terrible – she just didn’t want the voice of caution and reason in her ear when she was contemplating ideas. Older and wiser might be the prudent path to success, she reasoned, but it rarely led to really creative ideas.
Dara fell asleep with her arm over the borrowed books, Cinder chewing on her boots while she sprawled on her perpetually unmade bed. Magic was hard work, she considered as her eyes insisted on closing. Harder than construction, by far.
Chapter Thirteen
The Wounded Soldier
Dara had finally had enough.
It had been nearly three weeks since her father had departed the Westwood for Caolan’s Pass, a week longer than he’d said; and though her uncle was completely capable of running the estate himself, the absence of the Master of the Wood was felt by all during the busy summer months. Dara could not cross the compound to the new mews without getting a few stares and whispers from her cousins and the other Westwoodmen. Everyone was aware of her spat with her father,
and it seemed nearly everyone was taking his side.
There were no issues with the bridge, with the hall, or other problems, any more. If she had a request for the estate, she presented it to Kamal formally, and if it was not prohibited, she paid for it on the spot. It was a stiff and awkward exchange every time she had to do it, but neither she nor her uncle were willing to relent. So the awkwardness continued.
Thankfully, so did the progress on the mews. The first floor was timbered, daubed, and finished, and the second story was getting the first rafters of the roof laid by the sturdy Malkas Alon carpenters. Their strength and ability to work in coordination meant that they made tremendous progress, as long as they had an adequate supply of timber. Ensuring that supply had been Dara’s focus for days.
With judicious use of the witchstone, she and Gareth had been able to dry and cure the wattle and daub quickly, and then enchant it with firewardings and other magical protections. Gareth also showed her how to magically bind the beams of the structure together for additional stability. The mews was now as sound as a castle from foundation to rafters.
The problem now was thatch. With all the construction going on in Sevendor, there was nary a reed or blade of grass that hadn’t been spoken for in the vale. For a building this size not just any straw would do, either – it had to be selected cuttings crafted by someone who knew how to contend with the pitch and size of the roof and make it waterproof. Ensuring the roof didn’t leak on the birds when it rained was paramount, the master falconer had repeatedly lectured her. Damp conditions could spread disease that could wipe out an entire mews, if the falconers were lax in their duties.
So Dara was now obsessed with finding thatch. She’d traveled as far away as Brestal to try to secure adequate thatch for the roof of the mews, but to no avail. Folk were turning to more-expensive oaken shingles or even indulging in clay tile rooves, if they had the purse for it, due to the lack. Others were having to order it from other domains and wait weeks for delivery.
But Dara couldn’t – not while her father controlled her funds. She had enough left in her treasury to pay for a thatched roof, if she could find some at a reasonable price. Oak shingles were twice as expensive, though they lasted thrice as long. If she couldn’t find good thatch she would have to return to Banamor to convince him to extend his loan and buy oaken shingles, and pay someone who knew the craft to lay them. That would expand her costs for the mews significantly. She didn’t foresee any difficulties with that, but it galled her to be that much in debt when she knew she had money.
Nattia was helpful in her search. While the Master Falconer was busy building perches and cages for the mews, his red-headed apprentice was happy to run to and from Sevendor Town, the castle, and even as far as Boval Village in her maddening search for thatch and other supplies.
Meanwhile, Nattia also quietly continued offering her advice on the process of adapting Frightful to being ridden. She’d sewn a tiny doll and stuffed it with horsehair to get the falcon used to the regular burden of a rider. Frightful let Dara know she was unconvinced that it was the same as bearing Dara on her back, but she submitted to the training anyway. Nattia spent some afternoons in the upper meadows practicing with the bird. Even lacking a magical Talent for beastmastery, Dara had to admit the girl had an uncanny rapport with her bird.
But the question of thatch was what preoccupied her the most. In just a few weeks the weather would start to cool, and the rains would begin. It was best to thatch a roof in dry weather, not wet, she knew from personal experience.
“Have you checked at Caolan’s Pass?” Gareth inquired one afternoon when he visited the incomplete mews to see to her progress. “I know that since the war ended sometimes the Sashtali merchants will employ an agent to contract for such things there.”
Dara glared at the young wizard until he raised his hands defensively. Her father was still at Caolan’s Pass, and they both knew it.
“All right, I’m sorry I brought it up!” Gareth sighed. “It’s just getting late in the summer, and you’re running out of options. Master Arcor wants those birds safely in their new home before autumn. And you won’t find a thatcher once mowing season begins,” he reminded her.
She groaned. She knew he was right. Most thatchers also did mowing, using the trimmings for their craft . . . and nearly all of that limited supply of thatch was already promised, according to the merchants in Sevendor’s market. Once mowing season commenced, there wouldn’t be anyone to do the work if she even found the material.
“Just go, Dara,” Gareth counselled, quietly. “It’s been weeks, and it’s gnawing on you. You have a legitimate excuse to go there,” he reasoned. “You don’t even have to talk to him.”
“He’s not going to let me get out of there without talking to him,” Dara moaned. “He’s got to know how much trouble Uncle Kamal has caused for me. He’s angry because I out-ranked him and used it to get my way. Going up to Caolan’s Pass is just going to give him an excuse to fight.”
“You’ve got to get thatch, Dara,” Gareth insisted. “Think about it like a wizard, not a Hawklady: you have something you desire, something you need and you have to make a plan to get it. And then apply your Will to demand the desired result from the universe,” he explained. “It’s no different from a spell.”
“It’s just . . . just my ego getting in the way,” she sighed, defeated. “And I know it.”
“Always an occupational danger for a wizard,” Gareth nodded. Most spells required a strong ego, Dara knew. If the wizard casting them didn’t have one, they wouldn’t be casting spells. It took a lot to demand something from the arcane.
But there was a dark side to exercising her ego, she also knew. It was murmured about amongst the apprentices of her craft, and acknowledged as a danger from the very beginning of her instruction. The biggest obstacle to casting complex spells, she remembered Lady Pentandra telling her in the earliest days of her apprenticeship, was the wizard’s own mind. Mastering ego, and not letting it master you, was the key to becoming a successful wizard.
To do so, she knew, a good wizard had to put aside things like pride, anger, resentment, self-pity, embarrassment or even teenaged awkwardness. Ego was a powerful tool, but it could be dangerous if it wasn’t controlled. The problem was that it was all too easy for a mage to not realize when they were tripping over their own ego. Traditionally, they relied on exercises and the observations of colleagues to give them the perspective they needed to overcome those obstacles.
Gareth was right. Seeing this job completed was no different than a spell. She could not let ego get in the way of her own Will.
“I’ll go,” she decided. “I’ll saddle up Lumpy and ride up to the pass and see if the Sashtali agents can help me out. If I see the Master of the Wood and he elects to converse, then I will speak to him on whatever topic he chooses,” she declared.
“Just get the thatch,” Gareth grumbled. “I’m tired of hearing you complain about it.”
Dara ignored the jibe, but she was true to her word. That afternoon she had her mule saddled and then rode her up the steep road to the top of the ridge.
She had a lot of time to think along the way, as Lumpy was a poor conversationalist, after a few minutes, and there were few others on the road this time of day. She reflected on Gareth’s mood, of late – he had continued to be helpful in building the mews but seemed more and more grumpy, for some reason. It was probably the increasing demands Master Banamor was putting on him, now that the Magic Fair was approaching in earnest, but the young wizard had not been a boon companion for days.
She also practiced her magic along the way, running through each stave of runes she knew by heart and struggling through the last two she’d learned. It was mere mental exercise, for the most part – she had a hard time drawing power while being bounced around on the back of a mule without her witchstone. But it gave her something to dwell on as Lumpy’s steady steps took her closer and closer to Caolan’s Pass . . . and her father.
The settlement at the top of the ridge was small, too small to be considered a proper estate. While there were a few rustics who tried to garden in small hollows of earth around the ridgetops, but it was a meager existence. The settlement only thrived on the tolls from trade over the pass. Those were few and far between, back in old Sir Urantal’s day, but since the Spellmonger came, trade had thrived.
Where once the master of the pass took in only a few pennies a week, the caravans from Sashtalia and beyond now brought in real silver. The settlement showed the new funds in several new buildings, including a new stable she put Lumpy in for a much-deserved drink and some hay. Had she ridden a horse, and not a donkey, the stableboy wouldn’t have been able to accommodate her, but there was a small stall at the end that was perfect for her steed.
There was much going on in the hall as carters secured their wares or exchanged them with agents from the town below and then returned home. Messengers on errands came and went, waving their passes at the guardsmen – her cousins, she saw – and hurrying on their way. And workmen bustled in and out of the hall as they checked with their foreman, who was scribbling notes on parchment and sketching out a design.
While she was surprised at the bustle of activity at the pass, she was even more surprised that no one questioned her about her sudden appearance. She expected someone to call out a mere child for being in a place of adult business, but then she realized that she’d grown at least a few inches in height over the summer. She no longer looked like a mere girl, she reasoned. That gave her a little more confidence as she waited patiently in line for the man a helpful traveler had identified as the Sashtali agent most likely to help her out.
“Thatch?” the portly man asked, as if he’d never heard the word before. “How much?”
Dara named the amount she thought she’d need. That made the agent consider the problem as if he was a physician trying to diagnose a patient. He tapped the long stem of his pipe against his chin as if he were beating the ideas into his head through the action. Finally, he regarded Dara as if seeing her for the first time.
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