Chapter 49: Nature of a Partridge

Kanara

When the Arlson came to me, he offered me freedom, comfort and a cottage far from Swidden. He offered me a berth as game keeper for Cloughbark, something unheard of for a woman, but he would give it to me. He said that he would bring Falconers from Orlais and they would train me to be a codger and how to care for falcons and hawks. If I showed promise, I would be permitted to handle the birds for hunting. I would be "Mistress of Mews" he said.

It was tempting. It had been so long since I had cared for birds, but these were birds with claws, I had been accustomed to song birds. I knew enough of the rocky crags to know what falcons did to song birds, stooping down from a blue sky on their unsuspecting prey. I had used a sling shot to frighten off falcons that took to roosting near the Aviary, since they were attracted by the singing of the birds.

With a somber eye and a shy smile, he promised I would never see Arl Boese again. Boese would never lay hand on me again. He would never dog my steps and haunt my dreams.

The Arlson knew what he was offering, as I'm sure most demons learn such skills. He offered me safety and renewed purpose other than cowering under the stairs in the kitchen. The man knew of Boese and had interviewed servants long enough that he heard all the old gossip. The foxish grin, with a quick flash of teeth, told me all I needed to know, though he hid his whiskers well enough.

There was an old tale of a fox that called to a partridge to come down from the tree, offering all manner of gifts if the bird would just keep him company for a time. The partridge kept refusing, for what bird would trust a fox enough to go to ground. It was not until a chick fell from its nest right into the fox's paw. The fox jigged gleefully, flaunting the shivering chick to the horrified bird. Seeing the hopelessness of the situation, the bird agreed to come to ground to save the chick.

The fox killed the partridge, as it was in its nature to do. The bird willingly sacrificed its freedom, its life, as it was in its nature to do. No one ever told me what became of the chick, if some other bird returned it to its nest or if the fox ate the boney, fragile creature since he had the power to do so. The tale always disturbed me, but it taught me something that I still carry with me.

The Arlson had bought Derora's goodwill and complicity. I know not the terms of their contract, but she readily agreed to slip the tonic into the gruel that she made for the morning meal. It would be enough to reduce the lady to senselessness. She would be caught in an interminable slumber, only broken by fitful waking to meet the designs of nature.

Such a slumber was not new to us: for some in the household had fallen into a deep sleep over the past months. They dreamed and withered away as they slept, until they were but a husk. Boese, having no patience or mercy, would have them cast out into the woods to their fates. Some would be collected by their families to die among those who cared. Others would disappear, probably taken in the night by the predators that frequented the woods.

My role required that I ensure she ate the gruel, causing her to remain asleep. It seemed a fair exchange, since I had no choice but to be silent. The food would sustain. I would cause no harm. I have never caused harm, even when sorely tempted. Sleep is sweet, perhaps one could see it as a mercy to those mewed. She would be unaware of the prison, for a bird robbed of the sky that is perhaps best.

Arrangements were made. The Aviary was refitted for a different sort of bird. We were both to be mewed together. The arlson insisted the furnishings be simple, "No point in spoiling the lady. He betrothed would prefer her to ape a Chantry sister – best that it resemble a cell, though I doubt many have such a view. So many windows…be wary my good woman. Mind that she does not fall…not that she is like to do such a thing in despair. However it should not be an issue for you will ensure that she rests comfortably, preventing her from causing herself injury or planning mischief. She will sleep well until the wedding day…"

She came to me like a crumpled half moon laid upon her bed: a baby bird in a solitary nest, defenseless from the predators that prowled these halls.

Once I thought Boese was the worst of them, but I had come to be unsure of my previous assumptions. He is the boar: all boast, bluster and brutality. He breaks things on a whim or blinded by his rage. He liked to admire the pieces and shiny fragments of his carnage, snuffling them with a rooting snout, trying to make sense of the disarray he orchestrated. However, his eyes seem absent of human sense most times – you can hardly blame an animal for following their nature. He is all beast trying to pass as a man, and I pity him for he knows no better.

His father had not been this way. He was a noble man, from the faded memories I tender. His mother, too, had been a good woman, doting to a fault, but oh so weak in her gentility. He had been no more than twelve years of age when he lost them both during a hard winter. He became master when he was hardly a young man and he was alone. He struggled to find a way, and in his fear of losing control and being weak, his fear made him harsh. There were no more sweet pleasures of family and love to gentle him. Rather than mourn it, he denied that it mattered. In his fractured heart, it healed badly and he was twisted by the injury.

He knows power, that being his only security. It has been this way so long that he no longer recalled what it was like before. He can only obtain it by force. Years later, a friendship with an older fox only corrupted him further. In his desire for an equal companion, he became harsher to gain approval of a hard man. The pair encouraged eachother in their exploration of darker elations, leading one another deeper into the mire.

I could never know the extent of the corruption until the day Arl Boese had come to the Aviary on a whim. I had been younger then, not quite pretty, but neither ugly. He had eyed the birds with shallow interest before casting eyes on me. When he raised his hand to play fingers at my cheek I had cringed, half expecting a blow. The response incensed him.

He shouted, turning near purple with rage. I was mute, I was a woman and I was a servant: I could neither scream for help nor defend myself. His ranting caused me to cower, to retreat, backing myself to the sill of one of the open windows. As the stone pressed into the back of my thighs and his raised his hand to strike me, I knew full well I would fall.

It had always been a musing of mine to wonder what it would feel like to fly, the rush of wind under wings. Feeling the air rushing past my body ruffling my skirts would probably be similar. At least I would have had that. I felt my jaw set in determined resignation, waiting for the blow to fall, waiting for my body to fly.

"Leo, you are frightening the little bird. Do you know not how to handle such fragile things?" a masculine voice coyly teased.

Arl Boese had been accompanied to the Aviary by his guest, Arl Crewe. The man had red hair and his smiles were full of teeth. Though the words offered reprieve, the tone was far from reassuring like the barking of a fox to a patridge.

The threatening hand was lowered, and Arl Boese glowered, but he allowed, "I momentarily forgot myself in my rage, friend. Thank you for returning me to sense. What would bring you pleasure?"

"I have seen the world through a needle's eye," the other man recited with a chuckle, "I have learned to dull the sharpness of a lie. I will content myself that I cannot fly if I might feast upon the birds in a pie."

I felt myself shiver as the man went on to say he had not eaten such an exotic fare as what was available in the Aviary, "Imagine the pies. This servant here probably would know how to pluck and trim such offerings. They would be a week long feast for us. When we tire of such meat, we will have the left-overs sent to the kennels. This woman will be a perfect hostess, in all her silent radiance and will serve us at the table. Think you not that this is meet?"

My arl suddenly mulled over the man's suggestion, slowly savoring the words before returning his attention to me, "Woman, you are to have a new berth. You will be assigned to the kitchen and will prepare a feast for our honored guest, cooking the birds into pies until you either exhaust the stock or until we exhaust our pallets. The Aviary will be cleared. Is that understood?"

I tamped down the tears as I nodded ascent. The men left, clapping one another on the shoulders, laughing, turning their attention to other distractions until dinner.

The Cook had attempted to be compassionate, sending her son to wring the birds' necks so they could be plucked and prepared as he did for the chickens or geese as was needed. However I would allow no hand but mine to touch them, for they had been my charge. None would handle them but me in their final moments.

We harvest them a group at a time. To kill them too long before their usage would open the possibility for their tender flesh to spoil. Thus for the next week my days began with the sickening little snaps of bird necks between my nimble fingers, praying to the Maker that my hands were swift enough to make the pain minimal for the helpless creatures.

After each execution came the plucking, the feathers from the plain to the colorful littered the courtyard while I sat on the flagstones. They blew away and the action began to numb me. Without their plumes I could forget what they were, they were just meat, destined for gravy.

It had been my hope that the Arl would lose interest in the pies I made night after night, and he might well have had he not had the encouragement of his guest. The man glutted himself and raved to the Arl with each bite, occasionally casting a bright look of satisfaction in my direction. I served him night after night and I despised him, but my face remained slack and impassive as each pie was placed upon his platter, as each morsel was put into his gullet.

The occupants of the Aviary dwindled until there was only a small clutch of Rivaini Waxwings roosting in the cavernous cages. Their trilling, as they hopped amid their perches, were like questions, demanding to know where their winged brethren had disappeared to. They were always garrulous songsters: perhaps that is why I had avoided taking them till the last.

The first tanned body sat in my palm, chiding me until the inevitable snap. The bird was then limp, silent, and I felt the acid build in my throat. The silence was far more accusing than the trilling of his brothers in eulogy.

Without another thought, a desperate insanity engulfed me: I threw open the windows and then the cages. Waving frantically, I chased the birds from their perches. The frightened squalling, as the one who had cared for them became a monster, a threat that they had to fly from, and most escaped through the windows, except for the few that crashed into the walls, breaking their own necks in their confusion. Only a handful of limp corpses littered the floor, and I gathered them into my skirt.

They were enough for a single pie, which the two arls toasted, unaware of my treachery in releasing those marked for execution. Perhaps they took for granted that I was broken, that I could not resist since I had meekly served all week. As I left their presence that last night of penance, I heard the foxish arl observe to Arl Boese, "See, this asserts your dominance. You can be feared with far more subtlety than blatant brutality. It took me years to learn the finesse of ruling, my friend. There are things worse than death, there is pain that cuts deeper than a knife. One must be observant and vigilant."

When I next went into the courtyard, I could hear the waxwings jeering me as traitor, scolding me for my weakness, but they still lived. For the years that followed, I would catch glimpses of their hooded heads, heard the trilling of their roosting hidden in a copse of firs close to the castle.

Perhaps that is what finally returned the insanity that had become a dim buzz in the silence.

After the first night, I had feared that her injuries were deeper than mere cuts and bruises. There had been a lump the size of a stone on the back of her head. The eyes hooded by her lids seemed only vaguely responsive to light. When the first drugged meal arrived, I refused to feed her, to ensure that she was able to wake at all. The day and night were long as I anxiously waited for some kind of responsiveness in my charge. Once as I cared for her and mopped her brow with a cool cloth she seemed to stir, and I helped her to drink as I cradled her in my arms and tended her injury. Her gratitude was mumbled in her addled state. Whenever she stirred she would wince in pain, her eyes only opened once, saturated with unshed tears before oblivion claimed her again. I feared for her and I felt for her.

I opened the windows, hoping the bracing air would cause her to stir and regain her strength. The light of day fell across her face and she winced slightly, but it was different than before. My breath was deep with the easing of the tightness in my chest.

She struggled to sit and questioned me. I answered as I was able, with nods and gestures. Her ability to take in her surroundings offered some reassurance, but also created a dilemma. How could I knowingly keep her in slumber now?

The Arl chose that day to inspect the Aviary, accompanied by my benefactor who momentarily angled a chiding glare in my direction before bestowing all his false smiles upon my charge. The Arl allowed himself to be manipulated by the arlson, much like the other fox had done before. He was still weak though he deluded himself that he was strong.

The bird could preen coquettish in their presence and the Arl was drawn in by her gentle chirping, but the arlson managed to disengage the older man. There was a warning glance directed at me when he ushered the old boar through the door, foxish eyes narrowed. Partridges know the eyes above the jaws and are wary of such things. Perhaps he felt my wavering once I had known the chick which he threatened.

Perhaps Derora could sense my resolve wavering, for she began to yammer to the lady, serving her the drugged gruel. To prevent me from interfering in the ploy, she dredged up the memory of what I was, telling the story to my new charge. The long healed scars were torn anew and bled fresh.

She assumed that I had forgotten and that I required reminding. Her reminder did not have the desired response as I cried, feeling helpless. When the knock signaled for her to depart, her pointed look stated, "Do not forget what was promised. What is she to us? Our freedom hinges on our compliance in this matter."

She was a song bird, my delicate charge. As I cloistered myself in a corner, disengaging myself from the nestling, she raised her voice and the words were defiant and lovely. She would not bend to the whims of the fox or the boar as I had, as I had been led to do by red furred promises.

The food that Derora had given to her made her drowsy, as it was intended to do, and she finally wandered to the bed, laid down, her eyes drooping in unbidden sleep, and I continued to watch her.

I remembered accompanying my father as a little girl, as he was a yeoman in the wood for the previous arl. He knew all the wood, even better than some of the Avvar people that passed through from time to time. My mother had bemoaned the fact that I was mute, but my father saw it as a gift. I could walk without stirring twigs and I did not waste my days chattering like a magpie. Father would pat my head, winking, and smile, "My Kana, you are too full a vessel to have it wasted at your lips. Silence has depth and your wisdom is your own. Watch carefully and do not be taken in by what is without."

One day we had walked when a partridge had landed a few feet ahead of us, it batted its wings, spreading the pins wide, chirping pitifully and I made toward it, thinking it had been injured and desiring to tend it. My father grabbed my hand quickly, staying me from rushing blindly toward the bird. When I turned questioning eyes on him he placed his forefinger beside his nose and silently motioned for me to watch and withhold my actions.

The bird continued to flail and flutter, staggering itself up the path farther and farther, while my father and I followed it as a reasonable distance. After a while it fluttered less, and preened slightly. At a certain point it stood waiting for us, and when it had deemed we had come close enough, it took to the air on strong wings and flew back down the path from whence we had come. The bird I had assumed was injured was not injured at all.

"We must have passed too close to her nest, Kana," my father explained, sensing my confusion, "She thought she was leading us away from her babies by pretending to be injured. If we had been predators we would have followed her, assuming she was an easy meal because of her supposed injuries. She is a good mother, that partridge, and knows how to use the weakness of those that stalk her."

What would he have thought of my contract, I wonder?

I mulled over the memories for days, as I continued to drug my charge with the food that Derora brought me. The song bird would groggily accept the food at my hands as she lay on her pallet, weak and vulnerable. Derora looked smug every time she returned, looking more foxish each day, her nose seeming longer as she gazed down at me, her eyes carrying a keen twinkle. At times I wondered if my agreement was beginning to change me into the things that had stalked me, had preyed upon me.

In less than a week, I was resolved.

When Derora brought the food, I fed my song bird my own meal, sharing it in turns with each mouthful. The meal intended for her was poured out the window, striking the stones at the side of the tower like bird castings. None below seemed to notice the weathered tower had become decorated in cast off gruel.

That evening, the song bird was more alert. She sat up and rubbed her nape just below her near healed injury. She asked questions, seeming unaware of how long she had been sleeping. I would nod, or shake my head, unable to elaborate on the thoughts taking form in my head. I could not explain the danger I perceived. I could not warn her to abandon her blind trust in me, for she saw me with soft eyes. She looked at me as a nestling must look at their mother.

Before Derora would arrive, I would lead her to her bed and urge her to lie down with rough hands, pulling the blanket to her chin, pantomiming my desire that she should pretend to sleep. When Derora would carry in the tray, I would take it from her. The sharp eyes would skitter to my song bird's inert form on the bed, silently inquiring if my charge slept, to which I would nod and she would shrug, retreating back through the door.

Carrying over the bowls, I would hand the wooden bowl that was to be for me to my bird, and carrying the blue bowl to the window, dumping its contents over the side. The first time I had done it, her eyebrows had skewed, but I suspect she was vaguely aware of my reasons, for she did not question and readily shared the stew that was my meal.

We could not continue this way, though not drugged my little bird was trapped as surely as I. Our only means of escape would either be through the barred door or the open window.

I wondered if the partridge ever considered the consequences of its ruse. What if it could not move fast enough out of harm's way? Did it do it knowing there was the potential that it would die for its young, oblivious in the nest?

That last day I sat beside her on the bed, patting her hand reassuringly and she looked at me with confused eyes, but did not question my behavior. When the time came, I did not swaddle her in the bed or mime for her to feign sleep. Instead I stood and walked to the door, signaling for her to remain seated. I picked up the heavy bowl that had been holding the noxious food from the previous day and took my place beside the door, next to the wall near its hinges.

When the door opened and Derora entered, she stopped short in the center of the room, realizing that my song bird was not lying in the bed, but sitting up. Before the startled woman could respond I kicked the door closed with my foot, hearing the bolt slid home just as I brought my hands down with the bowl on the back of Derora's head before she could cry out. Instantly she crumpled to the floor with a groan and I caught the edge of the tray so it would not crash with her, alert the guards without of what occurred within.

The song bird's eyes grew wide as she took in Derora's still form, her mouth began to stutter, but there was no time to argue. I stripped Derora's clothes from her and gestured for my song bird to put them on. She picked them up with uncertainty, but began to change into her homespun shift and apron. I quickly coiled her hair into a bun and concealed it under the kerchief that was always Derora's fashion to hide her gray lockes. Each action and movement fluttered, like desperate wings.

When she had been clothed, I dragged her to the window and pointed across the courtyard to the kitchen, implying she should go there. From there she could slip out of the servant's quarters, perhaps she could find her way through the woods, even in the cold. Perhaps she could steal some of the autumn fruits to sustain her as she tried to find her way to safety or at least a safe place to hide. The predators of the forest could be no worse than the predators of this cage. I could feel she was strong. I just needed her to get beyond the reach of the fox. I could not speak all these thoughts, all I could do was look at her pleadingly, hoping she understood my reasons.

She still looked confused, but nodded as I handed her the spent tray from the day before. She lowered her eyes, bowing her head, hunching her shoulders, mimicking the guise of a servant who will not look a guard or a lord in the eye. I did the rhythmic knock on the door that signaled the guard to open the door. The bar and bolt were withdrawn and she stepped out into the passage and I held my breath.

There was no outraged shout of the guard or the sound of running footsteps, indicating that my plan had been overturned. I only heard her footsteps retreating down the steps and far away.

I put Derora to bed, carefully bandaging her head and applying the unguent that I had used on my song bird's injuries when she first came to me. I patted the shoulder of my one-time friend and went to the window. A figure carefully walked across the courtyard toward the kitchen, her pace brisk. When she disappeared behind the door at the far side, turning into a fleeting shadow in the fading light, my heart felt simultaneously glad and pained.

At some point in the night I heard the alarm bells ring, warning of treachery. I knew that it meant the end.

As my friend shifted restlessly on the bed, groaning again in her discomfort, I returned to my vigil at the window. The lights in the keep windows came on like flickering orange fireflies. I could hear metal greaves on cobbles as armed guards stalked across the courtyard, back to the aery tower, carrying torches and shouting angrily. I could barely make out a foxish face glare up amid the men, casting an angry look at my window.

There was a feeling of satisfaction as I hurled the blue pottered bowl from my perch into the men below, eliciting outraged cries as the watery stew rained down upon their heads and the sound of the bowl as it shattered onto the cobbles. It was the only defiance a mute could muster in the face of armed men. In a matter of moments they would be upon the door and their rough hands would drag me away.

For a moment I stood there on the precipice of my indecision, I felt the breeze from the window. As the door opened and I saw the face of the first man to enter, I leaned back into that breeze, my feet losing purchase on the floor. My body fell through the air toward the courtyard below. The wind billowed my skirts like wings and kissed my cheeks. I thought I could barely discern the sound of waxwings, calling to me in the darkness, offering me absolution.

It was not quite freedom, it was not quite flying, but I was satisfied.