Hawkmaiden (17 page)

“Karl’s man Dalias, a ranger of great cunning and a great friend to the chieftain, discovered the vale that became Sevendor, and led Karl and Lissa and all their folk quietly away from their old encampment and to the new, defensible vale.

“But ever the evil men pursued them, desperate for the power of the secret fire and the knowledge to exploit it.  The Westwood was remote from the knowledge of men in those days, and all of Sevendor Vale covered in the wood.  Dalias and Karl contrived cunning traps along the way, while Lissa fashioned a bridge over the ravine.  When she crossed to this very site, which was a great treeless meadow, she prayed for guidance as the sun set over the western ridge.  Our folk lit no fire, though it was deep in winter, for though they were cold they did not want to alert their enemies.

“That night Lissa had a dream.  The next morning, she awoke with her hair struck red as a new-forged copper.  She called her men to her, and that morning they gathered stones from all over the wood and raised a mighty cairn.  Within they placed all their knowledge and wisdom of the secret fire, and they closed it up.  Lissa built a great fire on the cairn and our folk warmed themselves and cooked for the first time in days.

“Dalias and Karl ranged the vale and harassed their enemies from the protection of the wood.  They made a camp on Matten’s Helm and concealed their paths with their woodcraft.  For days they tormented their pursuers.  They shot at them from hidden places.  They entrapped them with clever plans and ever hid themselves in the bosom of the wood.  As Lissa began to form the first Hall around the fire, her husband and his man kept the evil men at bay.

“One day soon after they arrived here,” he continued, taking another mighty pull from his mug, “Dalias and Karl’s luck ran out.  They were beaten in battle and fell back to the safety of the wood yet again.  They did all they could to lead their foes away from their most secret camp, but on that unfortunate day Dalias was slain as a storm loomed over the ridge.  Karl fell back across the bridge to the Hall, and begged Lissa to conceal him.

“That brave lady did so, and opened a cavity in the mountain and put her lover within.  When the evil men arrived, they were furious.  Though they searched everywhere, they did not discover Karl the Rebel, and his lair was no prize.  At last they had found the hidden lands of their prize – yet what they saw was not learned sages tending the secrets of the universe, but a band of half-starved rustics huddled around a fire for warmth.  Lissa’s folk offered no more resistance.  But they said only Karl knew where the secret fire was hidden, and they had not seen him in weeks.

“It began to snow.  When the evil men finally made it to the ravine, they were tired.  Some perished in trying to cross the simple bridge in place there.  Those who made it across demanded the secret fire and searched every inch of the encampment . . . while our ancestors huddled around the Flame for warmth.  Though they searched desperately, they found naught of either Karl or the secret fire. They did not discover Karl’s hiding place, for as they dared cross the chasm the snow fell so thick that it covered Karl’s tracks.  When they looked for him, they saw only what the snow and the Flame let them see.  Only once did they come close to Karl’s secret lair, but a pack of wolves appeared, sent by the Flame, and kept the evil men at bay.  Karl was gone, Lissa insisted, and eventually they listened. 

“Once they left the vale unfulfilled, Lissa ordered the flame to be stoked into a great fire, Karl was brought forth, and a feast was held to mourn the loss of valiant Dalias. 

“That night Lissa had another dream, this one promising to secure our folk as long as the Flame was properly tended.  The next day she laid upon our folk the sacred charge: to never let the Flame die, to never leave it unattended, and to never let the secrets of our folk be given to those unworthy of them.

“Thus we have endured, all these long years, on this small strip of land.  For with the Flame to warm us and the Wood to feed us, the Chasm to guard us and the example of our ancestors to guide us, the Westwood will be secure against all darkness.  For in darkness, the Flame abides.”

“
In darkness, the Flame abides
,” the entire Hall responded, in unison.  It was the secret watchword of the Westwood, the central principal of the brave woodmen.  It was the ritual words said over a new-born babe, during the private marriage ceremonies within the hall, and over the corpses of the beloved dead before they were burned to ashes. 

As long as the Flame endured, it meant that all was well . . . and that hope yet lived.

*                            *                            *

That night, as the snow continued to cover the vale, Dara’s sleep was restless.  It was a cold night, of course, and in addition to the snow the winds howled wickedly out of the chasm until it sounded like the howls of wolves.  Tree limbs clattered and banged, some snapping and falling abruptly under the weight of snow on their boughs.  The noise and the chill made Frightful skittish, forcing Dara to hood her before she blew out the taper and tried to sleep herself.

She didn’t know why, but she was feeling very anxious as she lay under the great quilt in her bed.  The storm did not help her nerves, but that was not the source of her anxiety.  Eventually she dismissed the vague feeling of unease as her picking up on Frightful’s skittishness – Uncle Keram had often said that a falconer and his bird came to share a bond or affinity like that.  Dara’s long hours of training and care of the falcon had made her as familiar with her various moods as she was any person in the Hall. 

To distract herself, she tried to envision the tale of Karl and Lissa, the founders of the Westwood and the kindlers of the Flame that had burnt continuously for centuries.  They had been brave, she reminded herself, fleeing for their lives and protecting the secret of the Flame, whatever that was.  They had not submitted to storm, hunger, or evil men.  They had established the Flame and built a life for their descendents in the Wood. 

That brought great comfort to Dara.  But it did not entirely banish her unease.  She fell asleep wondering what Karl and Lissa would have thought of the Magelord who now ruled their land.

Dara’s dreams were no more soothing than her waking thoughts.  They were filled with crazy, haphazard images: memories of her fateful climb up the mountain and her descent, the Yule feast, the endless hours training with Frightful and . . . other things.  There were images and folk she did not know, doing things she did not understand. 

At some point, deep in the night, there was a flash, a light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, all at once.  Dara was torn from her dream and savagely thrust into consciousness.  She woke herself up screaming piteously, her mind in turmoil.  The white brightness had been everywhere, a great and sudden wave that had collapsed like a bough of a tree breaking. 

Dara opened her eyes in the darkness, the smallest bit of light filtering in from the corridor.  Something was wrong, she knew.  Something was very wrong.

Not just wrong . . . changed.  Something was different.

“Smoke and ashes, girl, what’s
wrong
with you?” asked Aunt Alina from the doorway.  “What . . . what . . . oh, by the Flame that warms us, what has happened?  What have you done?” she demanded, her voice rising in tone and shrillness.

“What have . . . I was . . .” Dara mumbled confusedly, her mouth dry and her stomach churning.  Things didn’t look right . . . her eyes weren’t seeing them properly . . . she struggled . . .

Things became clearer when the thin door was opened and her Uncle Keram pushed inside, carrying a lit taper that seemed much brighter than it should.  His eyes were wide with fear.

“What happened?” he demanded.

“I . . . I had a bad dream,” Dara said, weakly.

“You screamed?”

“
Dream!
” Dara insisted.  “I had a dream.  I don’t know why I screamed.  I was . . . falling, I think, and . . .”

“Are you all right?” he asked, concerned.  “Shall I fetch your father?”

“No, no,” Dara protested.  “I’m . . . I’m fine, it’s just . . . why does everything look so . . . different?”  Her stomach lurched as she turned her head around.  The dark stone of the wall didn’t look right . . . it didn’t even look dark.  As her eyes focused and adjusted to the dim lamination of the taper, it appeared as if someone had snuck into her room and quietly whitewashed the walls.

Only that was impossible. 

“What’s happening?” someone called sleepily from the corridor.  “Why is . . .
why is everything white?”

Uncle Keram looked at Dara suddenly and sternly.  “Dara! 
What have you done?
”

“Me?  I was
sleeping!
” she protested.  “I just had a bad dream, I –” She stopped speaking as her stomach finally came to some decision about its destiny.  Dara threw up suddenly.

That sent her aunt into a tizzy as she started barking orders to her daughters and other folk in the vicinity of her voice.  Dara felt herself get taken from her bed by her uncle, deposited before the Flame in the hall and stripped while her aunt bathed her with warm water scented with dried lavender.

“There, there,” her aunt crooned to her as she wiped the last of the residue from her face.  “You poor thing . . . was it something you ate, do you think?”

“Why . . . why is everything white?” Dara demanded, confused, as she looked around.  Every stone in the great firepit, every stone in the wall, even the clay wattle of the walls themselves were bright white.  “What happened?”

“No one knows, yet,” her aunt said, nervously.  “But we’ll get to the bottom of it soon enough, don’t you worry, Little Bird.  You just had a dream,” she reminded her.  “Nothing to worry about.”

“Except for all of
this
,” Dara said, helplessly gesturing toward the bright stones of the Flame.  “How is this
not
something to worry about?”

“We’re still warm, dry and fed,” her aunt said, stubbornly as she covered Dara with her mantle.  “The Flame is still lit.  We’ll sort the rest out later.”

Dara nodded, and then accepted a sip from a bottle offered to her by her buck-toothed cousin Lanthi.  It burned like fire, but it removed the vile taste of vomit from her lips.  It also made her sleepy.  Before she knew it, Dara was back asleep, the heat of the Flame on her face.

Her dreams continued to be filled with disturbing visions and confusing sensations, but they were more restful under the influence of the draughts her aunt gave her.  When she returned to consciousness again, she was back in her bed, her falcon on the block nearby.  It was afternoon, if she read the angle of the sun through the shutters right.

And every stone in sight was still bleached white.

“What have I done?” she asked herself in despair.  It wasn’t just the stones,
she
was feeling differently, now.  There seemed to be an unearthly light coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. 

“You haven’t done anything,” came a voice answering her unexpectedly.  Dara turned over and saw that her oldest brother, Kyre, was sitting on the stool next to her narrow bed.  “Welcome back to the living, Little Bird.  Again.”

“What happened?” she asked, sitting up slowly.  “Am I . . . are we . . .
dead?
”

“You’ve been out for two days,” he chuckled at her confusion.  “So no, you are not dead, and neither am I.  This was the result of a magic spell, apparently.  One of the Magelord’s.  His son was born a few days ago – the very night that this,” he said, gesturing around to the white stone around them, “happened.  There were complications, and . . . well, no one really knows what happened.  Except that all the stone and rock closest to the castle has all turned white, for some reason.”

“But it wasn’t
me?
” Dara asked, relief flooding through her.

“No, it wasn’t you,” he assured her.  “But once we sent someone to the castle with word of what had happened, we heard that it had happened to others, too.  You weren’t the only one that threw up.”

“Huh?  Why?”

“We don’t know,” he shrugged.  “But the Magelord is investigating it.  How do you feel now?”

“Uh . . . better,” she admitted, after she evaluated herself.  “Less sick to my stomach, at least.  But my eyes . . . it’s like I’m seeing things differently . . .”

“You aren’t the only one.  Several people reported getting sick after that . . . that light.  Even Sir Cei, the castellan.  Some side effect of the magic, they say.”

“If that’s magic, you can have it!” Dara said emphatically.  “That was awful, Kyre!  I still feel strange.”

“Well, don’t be too hasty,” Kyre said.  “We haven’t heard back yet, but when you fell sick our father sent word to the castle.   The Magelord hasn’t officially responded yet, but . . . well, I spoke to his man, Banamor, who is a kind of wizard, I guess, and he suggested that those who got sick may prove to have the
rajira
talent.”

“The
what?
”

“
Rajira
,” repeated her brother with a grin.  “I hope you weren’t too set on a career as a falconer, Little Bird.  From everything that I’ve heard in the last few days you – and everyone else who got sick – may well be talented enough to learn magic.”