She made her second kill, but now the pigeons were all scattered or in hiding.
He sent her aloft again, then looked up at the circling bird, disappointed that all the pigeons were in hiding. He took out an odd contraption of a pair of wings mounted on a stuffed form, all on the end of a long string. He began swinging it around and around his head, whistling as he did so.
The falcon folded her wings and dropped from the sky, opening them at the last minute, hoping to grab the thing. Jakyr jerked it out of the way just in time, and she shot back up into the air.
He let her make another half-dozen passes at this thing—which he called a “lure”—before fastening a bit of her last kill to it. Once more he whistled and swung the lure, once more, she dove for it, and this time he let her catch it.
She hunched over her prize, wings spread, glaring at them both. Carefully, Jakyr came in behind her and worked her and her bit of bloody pigeon back up onto his gloved hand. “So, she didn’t leave, and I am her keeper for another day,” Jakyr said lightly. “Or rather, the Royal Falconer is. I have an assignment, and it’s not somewhere I can take her.”
_____________________________
Jakyr took his leave of Mags at the stable, just before luncheon, pressing a little bag that jingled into his hand as he did so. “I didn’t have time to find you anything, so go and find what you want,” the Herald said. “I am not very good at getting people presents.”
Mags had the shrewd notion that Jakyr hadn’t even tried to get him a present, but that would not have been from lack of generosity on his part. No, it would have been because he had been afraid that a gift would provoke a bond. And a gift of money was impersonal enough—many would say, “too impersonal,” which would make it just right so far as Jakyr was concerned.
Jakyr’s Companion was already saddled, with everything Jakyr needed for yet another journey stuffed into the saddlebags. Both of them looked ready to be gone. And now Mags had to wonder, just what kind of a personality Jakyr’s Companion had, if he fitted well with someone who didn’t want any ties on him.
:It is not that Jakyr doesn’t want any ties. It is that he doesn’t want any more than he already has.: If Dallen had had a voice, it would have been very dry. :And in his defense, he does do some very dangerous things, and he does not want anyone around him who can’t take care of himself.: There was a lot there that Dallen wasn’t saying, and Mags got the feeling, the very distinct feeling, that Jakyr’s Companion was a lot like his Chosen.
Still, none of that harmed Mags—
:True.:
“Ye didn’ need t’ give me a thin’—but I ain’t likely t’ turn it down,” Mags said gratefully. He was actually going to have a coin or two of his very own! Not that he needed money, but ... what if he wanted to get Lena or Bear a present? He couldn’t keep making things from Dallen’s hair, or soon the poor fellow would be snatched bald. “Thankee, sir. Reckon I owe ye again—”
“You don’t owe me anything, Mags. That is why it is a present.” The words were said with more ease than Jakyr had shown earlier this morning, and the Herald even reached out and ruffled Mags’ hair. “Looks like you’re doing well, settling in and getting on. I am happy for you. I never would have dreamed that under all that mud was a fine young Trainee when I first saw you.”
Mags stretched his mouth in a grin. “Me neither, sir. Tha’s Dallen’s doin’. Seems he managed t’ housebreak me.”
Jakyr laughed aloud. “You get on down to Master Soren’s house and your friends. I have a bit of a ride ahead of me, and the sooner I start, the less ground I will have to cover after dark.”
Mags waved to him as he headed off down the road to the Herald’s Gate, but didn’t linger. Tonight was a highly significant night in a week of special days. It was Midwinter’s Eve, the longest night of the year, and the reason for the holiday in the first place. Mags had permission to spend the night at Master Soren’s house, by express invitation. Soren Mender was unusually casual in most things, but it seemed he was unusually sober in one; he kept the Midwinter Solstice in the old-fashioned way, or so he said.
Now there had been enough priests prattling about the mine for Mags to have picked up that most religions considered the night significant. And Dallen had explained the whole year-turning religious business to him—how this was, in most of Valdemar’s religions, the night that the dark forces tried (and failed) to keep the mother-god from giving birth to the god, or in some, to keep the dead god from rising and being reborn. And none of that really mattered much to Mags—
But it did seem to matter to Master Soren, so he would give this all his due attention.
Since Mags had no idea just what was meant by “keeping Midwinter Solstice the old-fashioned way,” he had simply nodded gravely, thanked Soren sincerely for the honor of the invitation, and went to get permission to spend the night away. As he had expected, Herald Caelen was only too pleased to give it.
Which was why he was packing up a small bag with overnight things now.
“You told me you’d explain,” he reminded Dallen, as he slung his slender pack behind his saddle. “You told me you’d tell me what it is that Master Soren is going to be doing tonight.”
:Oh, it’s simple enough. Midwinter Eve is the longest night of the year. Most religions here in Valdemar consider that significant; that on this night, the boundaries between the material world and the spirit world are thinner, that spirits can cross over, and that dark and evil things can, too. So on Midwinter Eve, the “old-fashioned” thing to do is spend the night in vigil and do what you can to keep evil at bay. Music usually, and singing, and remembering good things. There is a special ceremony at midnight. Then when the sun rises, everyone has a breakfast feast of foods that are supposed to be lucky, and goes to bed—or to celebrate further, depending on how hardy you are.: Dallen shook his head. :There will be many sore heads the day after tomorrow. I can promise that there will be no hammering on that day either.:
Mags considered this. :So I’m—:
:To hold as much of the vigil as you are up to, and to join everyone at the breakfast feast. The hardest time is just before dawn, anyway, and I can promise you that it will be lively enough you aren’t likely to fall asleep. In fact, things are likely to get a bit rowdy: Dallen looked back over his shoulder at his Chosen. I have every intention of holding vigil. I am rather old-fashioned myself.:
Well, if Dallen was going to, Mags didn’t intend to be outdone.
:They’ll take you to your room when you get there, and it would be wise to get a bit of a nap if you can,: Dallen added, stopping for a moment to let a swirl of partygoers cross the road in front of them. :I certainly will, and so will most of Soren’s guests. They’ll wake you when it is time for the vigil to start.:
When he arrived at Soren Mender’s house, it was, for the first time since he had begun coming there, completely quiet. The Great Hall was empty, and the only person visible was the man who opened the door to his knock. “Where is everyone?” he asked the servant at the door.
A smile warmed the man’s eyes. “Today and early tomorrow are for only a few, select guests, Herald-trainee Mags. In the evening the usual open house will prevail until the end of the season, but this is what the Master calls his ‘quiet holiday’ You will find that the opposite prevails among many other households here; there are so many parties tonight that people may attend as many as twelve between now and dawn.”