Hawkmaiden (7 page)

That got him talking about the arduous process of training a hawk, and with a few leading questions Dara got him to explain the entire process of capturing and training a hawk, from his memories as a youth.  She learned again the importance of the hood, the jesses, and the bells.

Bells.
 Dara had forgotten
bells
.  As her uncle reminded her, bells were essential to attach to the legs of the bird, so the falconer might find the bird in the wild.

With a sinking feeling, Dara realized she’d have to find bells from somewhere.  That was not going to be easy.  Such dainties were rare in the Westwood.

Her uncle explained the difference between taking a fledgling bird – an
eyass
, she learned the falconers called them – and an adolescent bird still learning to hunt.  He went through the long, three-month process of acclimatizing the bird to humans and imprinting on the falconer specifically.  How you had to keep the bird constantly fed and dependent upon you, how you had to teach it how to fly from block to glove and back again, how you had to hack it out in the outdoors, and a dozen other vital elements of falconry.

Dara absorbed every word with special care.  It seemed far too easy to accidentally kill a bird, she realized, when her uncle began speaking about the importance of supplements to aid in casting.  Dara only had the vaguest idea what casting was, and had no idea what she should supplement the bird’s food with to aid it.  Asking such a question might draw suspicions, though, and Dara was adept enough at social relations to know when she was pushing the boundaries of an ordinary twelve year old’s curiosity.  Satisfied she had enough knowledge to begin with, at least, she began putting together the final elements of her scheme.  

Dara needn’t have worried about anyone figuring out she was up to something, however, as that night’s dinner conversation was filled with news from market.

Though Kamen had forbidden the regular market party from the Westwood going to the market in Sevendor Village, he had sent one of her uncles, his two boys and Kyre to the market to pick up a few essential supplies . . . and to listen to the gossip about the castle.  Shooting a castle soldier, however brutish, was not the sort of thing a commoner could get away with, but apparently Sir Erantal was not bent on revenge, yet.  Indeed, the gossip was about his latest dalliance with the wives of one of his Yeoman, Ylvine of Southridge Hold, and the scandal it had caused.

Dara’s matronly aunt looked properly indignant – no doubt the thought of fat old Sir Erantal trying to pay her court revolted her.   And while Kamen had no wish to be known as a rebel, having the lord of the domain trying to sport with his sister-in-law or wife would have brought every Westwoodman down on the old castle in a swarm.  Such a thought was repellant to the traditional Westwoodmen, and the fact that the folk of Southridge Hold weren’t up in arms over the affair only confirmed in their minds the degenerate state of the Vale folk in general.

Dara was entertained by the gossip, but her mind was elsewhere.  She approached her Aunt Anira quietly after the meal with the next stage of her plan.

“Anira, there’s so much work to do at the nutwood’s cot,” she began, dejectedly.  “The rain has really put me behind.  I might have to stay over, a few nights, to get it done.”

“If that’s what needs to happen,” her aunt said, absently.  “I do hope you’re getting something accomplished, and not just playing in the forest.”

“Anira!” Dara protested, holding out her hands.  After days of climbing, working with rope, and even actually cleaning they were rough, torn, and calloused.  “Does this
look
like I’ve been gathering wildflowers and dreaming of handsome knights?”

Anira snorted.  “Clearly not.  Very well, just take extra bedding, and keep the fire going.  I don’t want you to catch a cold,” she warned.  “Those cots are sturdy, but they can get draughty.”

“Thank you, Anira,” Dara said, rolling her eyes.  “I’ll try not to die of anything horrible until the job is done.”

“That would be best,” her aunt replied, already on to another task and not paying attention to what Dara said.  As much as she resented it other times, in this one instance she had to admit the lack of careful attention was a good thing.

That night she packed the rest of the things she thought she would need, both for the climb and staying at the cottage for a few days.

And, a morbid part of her reasoned, if she did plummet to her death from the top of the mountain, it would save her family the time and trouble of clearing out her room afterwards.  

As an afterthought she grabbed her little crossbow.  The arbalest was good for little other than hunting birds or rodents, or shooting rotten apples off of fences, but it might be helpful if a wolf or bear showed up unexpectedly, as was like to happen this close to the deep wood.  Her brother Kyre, who was learning the ranger’s craft, had often said a sharp pain to the nose would drive off most predators.  The bear he’d killed last autumn proved he knew his woodcraft.

She took it all in the wheelbarrow the next morning before breakfast and she liberally raided the kitchen for supplies before she left.  Oats, bread, cured bacon, some sausage, half a small wheel of cheese, salt, and a few other things to keep her going.  A last stop at the harness shed to fetch the last coil of rope and she was half a mile down the trail when the breakfast bell rang.

Dara barely worked on the cottage that day, beyond setting up a bit of a kitchen and preparing a bed
on the floor.  After that she just kept practicing her knots, laying out the long, long lengths of rope, and climbing trees using her gloves.  

She was in the process of descending one large tree when she realized she wasn’t alone.  And it wasn’t a curious raccoon who awaited her at the foot of the tree, either.

“Hullo!” she heard a young voice say.  “That’s about the highest I’ve ever seen anyone climb a tree!”

Her heart pounding, Dara got close enough to recognize that her visitor was a child – a boy, she realized, not much younger than herself.  She felt relieved.  At first she thought she had been caught by her aunt, her uncle, or even her brother.  Just a kid, she told herself.  Nothing to worry about.

Dara dropped the last ten feet and landed nimbly, without injury, on the soft loam under the tree.  “I’ve gone higher,” she boasted, brushing off her gloves.  “But that’s the highest tree around here, so I thought I’d give it a try.”

“I’m Kalen,” the boy said, suddenly.  He was maybe ten, and stood no higher than Dara’s shoulders.  He had light hair – a certain sign one of his parents had likely come from the Vale – and a runny nose.  “I come to bring some beans and biscuits to my gran – he’s Old Kori, two cots up.”

Dara knew of Old Kori.  He’d been a great hunter, once, and had sired many children, but the toothless old man had been living in the nutwood for as long as Dara could remember.  “I’m Dara,” she mentioned.  “Lenodara, actually, but only my aunt calls me that.”

“
Lenodara?”
the boy said, his eyes growing wide.  “You’re . . . you’re the
Master of the Wood’s
daughter!”

“One of them,” she admitted.  “The lesser one.  I’m the one they don’t like talking about.  Not the tall one,” she said, referencing Leska.  “And not the pretty one,” she grumbled.  For as long as she could remember, she had heard how pretty her older sister Linta was, and how well she would wed someday.  No one had said as much of Dara.

Kalen blinked.  “What do you mean?  You’re
plenty
pretty!  And no girl I know can climb a tree like that!”

He had such earnest admiration for the skill that Dara was forced to laugh.  “Thanks!  No one’s ever called me ‘plenty pretty’ before.  Or complimented my tree climbing.  Quite the opposite,” she chuckled.  

“So what is a lord’s daughter doing down here in the nutwood, climbing trees?”

“The Master of the Wood is no lord,” she corrected.  “He’s just the yeoman of the forest.  Sir Erantal is lord in Sevendor.  And I’m supposed to be getting this cot in shape,” she said, nodding toward the little hut.

“Old Widow Ama’s place,” Kalen nodded, sagely.  “I remember her.  She died.”

He said it in such a matter-of-fact way, Dara was surprised.  “Yes, you’re right,” she admitted.  “She was very old.  And she had a good, full life.  I’ll be spending a few days down here, getting it repaired and re-stocked.”

The kid didn’t seem concerned.  “Can I help?”

“The tree climbing or the cleaning?”

“The cleaning,” he said, quickly.  He glanced warily up at the fifty-foot spruce tree.  “I’m not so good at the climbing.”

She laughed and invited the boy inside.  Kalen proved to be very smart, and well-behaved, though she suspected that being in the company of her father’s daughter had much to do with his good behavior.  He was a curious boy, and immediately asked about the lack of bed, the smear of tar on the cistern, the empty planters by the door, and the ropes.  She had very good explanations for everything but the ropes.

“I’ve got a project I’m working on,” she said, hesitantly.  “It’s kind of complicated and . . . well, if you wouldn’t mind not mentioning the ropes to anyone . . .”

“Then you’ll command me to help you fix the cottage?” he asked, brightly.  “Otherwise I have to gather nuts.”  He did not make the task sound appealing.

“Command you?  More like ask you.  And I won’t need you much, but there are a few things that having a second pair of hands to help with might be good.”  The advantages of having a confederate immediately presented itself to Dara’s mind . . . but then so did the disadvantages.  Security, for one.  “But you mustn’t mention more than you are helping me.  To anyone.  No need to get specific about what we’re doing.  Can I trust you to do that?”

“Sure,” the boy answered with a shrug.  “No one ever asks me about anything, anyway.  I’ve got two brothers and a sister.  All older,” he said, making a face.  “I barely even get to speak, at home.”

Dara, being the youngest, could sympathize.  “All right, then, Kalen, I’m going to start on the floor, sometime tomorrow.  Let’s take a look at what kind of horrible task is ahead of us.”

She took the boy inside and poured him a cup of tea, apologizing for the lack of honey.  Kalen looked startled and mentioned he’d never tasted honey.  Dara kicked herself, inside her head.  The folk of the Westwood weren’t poor, exactly, but such luxuries that did come into the manor were usually reserved for the manor house.  Only at Yule and at special occasions did delicacies such as honey trickle down to the working folk who lived in the hamlet outside.   Apparently that hadn’t happened in Kalen’s short memory.

They went on to discuss just how good he was at digging holes, and the boy assured her he was both proficient and enthusiastic at the task.  Dara had designs on crafting a kind of awning over the doorway to the cot, and explained to Kalen where she needed the holes dug, and how deep.

“Then we’ll get to the floor.  It’s woefully uneven,” she pointed out, “and it’s dry as dust.  It
is
dust.  I think if I add some clay to it, sprinkle it with water and pack it down, I can level it out a bit with a log and make it more sturdy.  That way it won’t get this rut in the center, where Widow Alma must have walked back and forth.”

“And ferns,” Kalen reminded, “you need new ferns!”

“I’ve got them, already,” she said, glancing upward where the bundle of dried leaves was safely out of the damp.  “I was going to start laying them, when I noticed the floor . . . and noticed the wet spot in front of the door.  So an awning and a resurfaced floor, and then the roof, and this cot will be ready to live in again before you know it!”

Kalen was enthusiastic about the work, and even insisted on shaking Dara’s hand like his father did to seal a bargain.  The little boy marched back down the road an hour before twilight, proud of his rising station in the world.

Dara liked the boy.  He was smart, and clever, and his eyes saw a lot.  He was also inquisitive – a trait Dara had herself in abundance.

But as the light outdoors faded and Dara was forced to go inside and light a taper, she realized that she really couldn’t use Kalen’s sudden appearance as an excuse to wait on going up the mountain.  As much of a risk to her secrecy as he might be, she simply couldn’t wait any longer.  She’d climbed that tall spruce partially because she wanted to see as much of the horizon as she could . . . and the sky portended clear weather in the morning, if the lore she remembered was correct.

She would not have many more days before the eyases left the nest, and were lost to the wild forever.  If she wanted one, she would have to go soon.

Not soon, she realized, as she counted off the items she needed – and acquired. She had to go
tomorrow
.  Before first light.  There was no telling how long she could keep up her various ruses and avoid interception by someone in authority who figured out she was “up to something”.  Once she had the bird, no one could stop her, she reasoned.  

But until she had the bird in her hand, she was just a little girl dreaming and playing, not a novice apprentice falconer.  She had to commit.

I’m going to do it,
she realized, as she prepared to go to sleep early on a bed of ferns and blankets.  
I’m really going to go after that beautiful bird.