Rising

   Chapter 4

   Morning pierced the windows in the servants quarters to find Ahma waking
as she usually did.  She felt more refreshed and optimistic than she had in
months.  As she rose, stretching her wonderfully free wings as wide as the
cramped quarters would allow, fluttering them a few times to get the
remaining ache worked out, she noticed a large bottle sitting on the
communal table.  Normally it wouldn't have caught her eye amidst the
clutter of brushes, flasks, and other personal effects scattered upon the
table, but the bottle was made of clear, unblemished glass.  Glass was rare
enough in Durinum that few servants possessed anything made of it.  Ahma
sat up and took a curious closer look.  Upon her close inspection, Ahma
instantly recognized the bottles contents; feather dye.

   Hannah, just rising herself, apparently recognized it as well.  Her eyes
went wide with pleasure.  "Where's this come from, then?"

   "The Master," Ahma smiled.  "He asked me what I needed.  But I did not
expect...at least not so soon..."

   "Bless the day he returned," Hannah sighed.  She glanced at the bottle
and a bright smile swept over her face.  "There is enough for both of us,
even!  Oh, it's been ages since I've had such pleasure as dye for my old
feathers!"

   "Old indeed," Ahma giggled softly.

   The Wingling girl picked up the bottle of dye and inspected it, turning
it over in her hands as if it were precious.  Which, indeed, it was.  The
dying of wings was a deeply important ritual for her people, rooted in the
very beginning of their history.  While dying was not religious in nature,
any Wingling would agree that keeping their wings properly groomed and
attractively dyed was as much a part of their lives as prayer to Father Sky
or the deep joy of rising upon a gentle morning breeze.

   "Do you think we could obtain permission to be late to our duties while
we apply the dye?" Ahma asked.

   "Would that be wise?" Hannah returned.  "We don't want to displease the
Master.  He can take this gift away as easily as he's given it."

   "I don't think he would do that," said Ahma.  She felt strangely certain
of her words.  "It wouldn't hurt to ask."

   "Fair enough," Hannah shrugged.

   Together the Wingling women approached Marta, who had just finished
delegating tasks to a handful of maids.  The middle aged human glanced at
them and noted the excitement that the two unsuccessfully attempted to
contain.

   "You're cheerful this morning," she said dryly.

   "Marta, we have a request," said Ahma.

   Marta wiped her work roughened hands on her apron and crossed her arms,
her visage as stern as always, though they knew she was not so fierce as
she appeared.  "What is it?"

   "The Master has given us dye for our wings," Hannah spoke up.  Ahma held
the bottle aloft for Marta to see, as if it would mean something to her. 
"May we have a few moments to apply it this morning?  We...may be late for
our duties."

   "Oh, that?" Marta said.  Her brows lifted, causing some of the severity
in her face to fade.  She made a shooing motion toward them.  "The Master
already instructed me to allow Ahma and any other Wingling in the manor
some time this morning to themselves to do whatever they need with the
dye."

   "Really?  That's wonderful!" Hannah exclaimed.  She bowed to Marta and
smiled.  "I'll be brief, I promise."

   "Don't fret too badly," Marta said, the barest hint of a smile twitching
the corner of her lips.  It was the most smile that anyone ever saw from
her.  "The Master has extended our time to breakfast before beginning our
duties.  Hurry up or there'll be none for you two."

   "So much he does for us already," Hannah murmured as the other servants
left.  The two Wingling women uncorked the bottle of dye and helped each
other prepare to apply it.

   "He is his father's son," Ahma said softly.

   ***

   The two Wingling women showed up almost a half-hour late, but Marta had
indeed been correct about the extended breakfast.  They were able to take a
plate of food each and sit down to eat, albeit hastily.  Hannah was shocked
by the amount of food the servants had been given, a veritable feast next
to the barest of servings they had been issued the past months.  Instead of
the thin gruel that was normally their lot, they had eggs, bread, fruit,
thick porridge spiced with cinnamon, and even a slender cutting of roasted
ham.  Many servants were beside themselves with the generosity of such a
meal months of the lean helpings that had brought them all to uncomfortable
thinness.

   Several of the serving women complimented the loveliness of Ahma and
Hannah's newly dyed wings.  Both Winglings smiled brightly with pride. 
Ahma looked particularly lovely, the robin egg blue a brilliant match to
the paleness of her skin and the darkness of her hair.  Her wingbacks
remained their snowy white, while the feathers on facing her body held the
lustrous, soft new blue.  Again she felt as if a part of her long buried
had been restored, and she basked in the satisfaction of it.

   "The blue is very beautiful," Marta commented as the two Winglings
carried their plates to kitchen's wash basin.

   "When did you start complimenting people?" Hannah asked with a grin.

   "The Master's returned, so I thought I should be on my best behavior,"
Marta said wryly.

   Hannah laughed and bid the other women a pleasant day, then walked from
the kitchen to begin her duties about the Manor.

   Marta turned to Ahma and nodded toward the door.  "The Master would like
to see how the dying went once you're ready to see him.  He should be in
his father's study, going over some matters with the Stewart."

   "Let's hope we won't need to call the corpse wagon," Ahma smirked.

   Marta's face was expressionless as she replied, "I hope we will need to,
personally.  Now hurry up, you mustn't keep him waiting overmuch."

   Ahma returned to the servants quarters and slipped from the old dress
she wore to breakfast.  She smoothed a few wrinkles from her new, rich
dress, inspecting it.  It matched well with her newly dyed wings, she
decided.  She would need more dresses than this one, as it would be a shame
to ruin it from wearing it too often.  But her brown and frayed dress would
certainly not do.  Her eyes trailed over her wings and she realized with a
start the dye was exactly that of her favorite and most often choice in her
girlhood, and even when the elder Master had allowed her to dye her wings
before his death.

   Was it a mere coincidence, she wondered?  Perhaps his father had somehow
mentioned to him the kind of dye his favored servant had fancied.  Would he
remember such a thing?  Ahma stood, puzzled, inspecting her wings yet
again. There could be no doubt.  The hue and shading were precisely as she
remembered.  As she left the servants quarters, she wondered if her
favorite dye had been selected intentionally

   The study was empty when Ahma arrived at it, though the chair had been
moved and the desk showed signs of use.  She felt a faint tug at her heart;
the study had sat untouched by any hand but hers since the old Master had
passed.  It seemed strange that it should be otherwise.  Ahma dismissed the
notion and shut the door behind her.  She checked the dining hall and the
parlor, finding both empty.  Against her better judgment she walked to the
Stewards room to see if they had met there for some reason, but hearing the
vileness of the Stewards curses through his door, she decided the Master
was not there.  She decided to check his room.

   Find him she did, seated upon his bed.  Methaniel's huge body was clad
in simple garments of wool and cotton.  He had the sleeves of a deep gray
jerkin rolled up about his thick biceps.  A pair of loose, dark green
trousers were tucked into his sturdy boots.  His great sword was draped
across his lap and he slowly ran a rounded whetstone along the deadly edge,
occasionally rubbing the blade meticulously with a soft, oiled rag.

   Master Methaniel's head didn't lift as she entered, all his attention
focused upon his weapon.

   "Good morning," he greeted, still working the stone along the edge.

   Ahma curtsied and folded her hands in front of her, waiting for him to
speak.

   "How fare the servants?" He asked after a moment.  He placed the
whetstone on his bed and ran the oiled cloth over the portion of the blade
he had been working on.

   "Much better.  Everyone ate their fill for once at breakfast.  The
Steward has not been about berating us.  More blankets have been given to
everyone.  I've heard word that Rema is working on new clothes for those
who don't have enough."

   "Indeed she is," Methaniel confirmed.  "Good, good.  Everyone is
pleased, then?"

   "Very much so.  I don't think any of us lacked a smile this morning. 
Everyone was quite happy," Ahma replied.

   "Good," Methaniel nodded.  He inspected his blade for a moment longer,
then slid it into its sheath.  He stood and returned it to its place upon
the rack.

   "And your wings?" He asked.  He turned and trained his eyes upon her.

   Feeling slightly self-conscious, Ahma stretched her wings outward,
displaying the richly dyed feathers of the underside of her wings.  They
were meticulously cared for and tended, largely restored to their previous
beauty.  Ahma fairly glowed with pride.

   "Hannah...the other Wingling here...she and I applied the dye first
thing this morning.  We still had time to breakfast afterward too; no one
forced the servants to leave the kitchen before they were finished.  It was
a refreshing change."

   Smiling, Ahma gave her wings a light flutter before tucking them neatly
along her back.

   Methaniel nodded, pleased.  He stood, and Ahma had to crane her head
back a bit to meet his eyes.  She did it with more assurance than most
servants would.

   "What will you do now, my Lord?"

   The Master shrugged his broad shoulders and glanced out the window.  The
sky was pale, dreary even, but as clear and serene as any day was likely to
get this far into winter.  That it was not snowing was a blessing of
itself. A few whispy clouds slid lazily across the sky.

   Sunlight glinted dazzlingly in the Master's unbound hair as he turned to
Ahma.

   "It is not often the day is so fair this far north at this time of year.
I haven't had a leisurely ride since I left for the front."

   Ahma nodded and smiled up at him, her eyes shining at the mere mention
of riding.  She had always been fond of horses, ever since her father had
first taken her for a ride on their plow horse when she was a little girl.

   "Do you have duties to attend to?" Asked Methaniel.

   Ahma did her best not to giggle.  "Only those you give to me, Master."

   A sheepish smile crossed Methaniel's face, showing a boyishness that
Ahma found shocking in so hardened and fierce a man as he.  "Of course.  I
am rather absentminded today, it seems."

   "Not at all, my Lord."

   "Very well then," Methaniel cleared his throat.  "Do you know how to
ride?"

   Ahma's smile brightened despite herself and she nodded energetically,
causing the thick braid of her rich brown hair to bob across her folded
wings.

   "Very good," Methaniel chuckled.  "A ride, then.  Up through the
Kithicohr wood, to the cliff overlooking the Northern Pass.  I went there
often as I could in my boyhood."

   "Are you sure you want me to accompany you, my lord?" Ahma asked.  It
struck her as odd, somehow, to accompany him.  She had thought he would
want privacy in a personal place such as he described.

   "Quite sure," said he, then swept her briefly with his eyes.  "You will
need riding clothes.  A cloak to ward the chill.  Thick gloves for the
same. The day is fair, but winter will pierce you to the bone clad as you
are."

   Ahma nodded.  Her chocolate eyes shone with barely contained excitement
at the prospect of this impending adventure.

   "Go now.  See that Rema gives you something appropriate for riding and a
sturdy cloak," Methaniel instructed her.  "I'll meet you in the stables. 
Check on the Seamstress while you are down there.  If she seems overrun,
instruct her to obtain more assistants till everyone's new clothes have
been taken care of."

   "Yes, my Lord," Ahma replied.  She curtsied and left his room, walking
down the stairs and toward the back of the Manor to find the Seamstress.

   Rema and her girls were busy indeed.  The seamstress seemed to flutter
all about the room, doing this and that, grabbing garments, retrieving
threads, rolling out a length of cloth.  One of her assistants sat at the
loom while the other did her best to keep up with the seamstress.

   The commotion calmed when the three took note of Ahma.  Rema placed her
work down and walked to her, nodding slowly.  "A good morn to you, Miss
Ahma."

   "And you, Rema," Ahma replied with a kind smile.  She flicked her golden
bangs from her eyes.  She tended not to braid the shock of gold bangs back
as tightly as she did the rest of her brunet hair.  "The Master has sent me
to retrieve clothing more appropriate for riding."

   "Ah, yes," Rema nodded her graying head.  "Sent word to me to have
something of the sort ready for you he did, yes.  Had to make the same
alterations we did for the dress you wear now, of course, but it's done it
is."

   "Really?" Ahma's fair brow rose.  She wondered if the Master had planned
this, but surely he wouldn't have taken her so carefully in mind if he did.
Perhaps he just wanted it to be taken care of for the future.

   Ahma thanked the seamstress.  A dress was brought out to her along with
a pair of wonderfully warm riding gloves and a heavy cloak.  Ahma had
rarely ever worn a cloak; her wings made them a bit inconvenient.  Given
how quickly a winter could chill the bones, however, she was willing to try
it.

   "Master Methaniel instructed me to ask if you needed more assistants,
with how busy you are making more clothes for everyone."

   Rema looked thoughtful for a moment, glancing critically around the room
at the piles of garments waiting to be started or finished.  Finally she
bobbed a yes.  "Much as I hate to admit, we do.  A lot of work, yes.  One
more pair of hands should do.  We are behind and that won't do, not at
all."

   "Okay, I'll pass word to Marta to send along a girl who knows her way
around a needle."

   "Most kind of you," Rema smiled.  "Hurry along, Miss Ahma.  Mustn't keep
the Master waiting, no."

   Finding Marta was easy enough.  Ahma told her of the Master's
instructions and Rema's need for an extra pair of hands.  Marta sent a girl
along, and another just to be sure.  Ahma bid her good afternoon and went
into the vacant servants quarters to change.

   She slipped on her riding dress, a simple but warm garment thicker than
her beautiful blue dress and more suited to a day out in the cold.  The
material was a thick white cotton that, while breathable, helped to keep
her body heat in.  Over the cotton dress she wore a plain brown bodice that
pushed her bosom upward and inward securely.  The back of the bodice
settled just beneath her wings.  She was quite thankful Rema had the
foresight to send a dress with a bodice; riding could have been an
awkwardly embarrassing activity otherwise.  Her skirts hung down about her
legs, and she wore a pair of under britches to keep her long, slender legs
warm.  Her feet were clad in a pair of small, soft boots.  While humble and
plain, the boots were much more practical and comfortable than the small,
thin slippers most of the servants wore.

   After making sure her clothes looked presentable and orderly, the
Wingling girl slipped out of the Manor, feeling immediately grateful for
the cloak and the warmth it provided.  The day was blustery, the chill
winds shifting this way and that, but the weather was not overall
unpleasant.  Aside from the wind, the cold was fairly mild all in all. 
Ahma cut through one of the gardens and reached the stables on the west
side of the manor.

   Weak sunlight filtered through the stables, illuminating the few pens
and the racks of riding harnesses, saddles and various other gear and tack.
Few people with riding talent resided at the Manor, and as such the stables
had never been an especially busy place.  With Master Methaniel absent and
his father deceased it had indeed been nearly lifeless, with a single
stable hand tending the handful of horses.

   Ahma had badly missed the stables in the last six months.  When the
elder Master had lived, the two of them often ventured to the stables to
care for the horses or take them on short rides just outside the city. 
After his death, however, she had avoided the stables for fear of getting
the stable boy punished for her own absence from her duties.  The Wingling
girl hummed softly, the sound lilting and sweet, echoing in the narrow
confines of the stable.  She reached to pet several horses, caressing one
here, another there, stopping to dip her hand in a bag of oats and feed it
to one especially friendly mare.

   The last pen in the stable housed a horse beyond compare.  The sight of
it took Ahma's breath away.

   The horse was a white stallion, his coat shining in the weak sunbeam
pouring into his pen.  His mane and tail were thick and healthy, and
glinting an unusual burnished gold of such rich color it was striking
against his pale coat.  He stood far taller than her at the shoulder,
easily twenty hand spans high.  His body was thick and powerful, muscles
bulging with frightening power under his coat.  He turned a dark equine eye
her way.  He gave a soft snort as he studied her.  Surely this was a horse
to take to war.  Ahma shuddered to think what those massive hooves could do
to a person.  He was the largest horse Ahma had ever seen.

   "Amazing, is he not?"

   Ahma whirled to find Methaniel standing just behind her.  Heart
pounding, she could only nod.  For all his large stature, the man was
silent as a cat.

   "He is of Fenlon stock, the land beyond the mountains to the west.  We
see little trade with them, and most of it consists of horses such as this
one," Methaniel explained.  He stepped past her and reached out to fondly
rub the horses muzzle, which the stallion allowed most happily.

   "These are the biggest horses in the known world, and they are bred so
meticulously and carefully, they are passing rare.  It would shock me if
more than five hundred are alive at any one time.  No other horse can
compare to them in matters of intelligence, loyalty, power, or speed."

   "Speed?  From a warhorse, my lord?" Ahma glanced at him curiously.  "I'm
no stable master, but I do know that warhorses are valued for their power,
not their speed.  How can such a big horse possess speed?"

   Methaniel smiled brightly at her, casting a glance at his mount and
nodding.  "Perhaps some day, I will show you."

   Ahma returned his smile, folding her hands in front of her and looking
down, feeling unexplainably embarrassed.  "I would like that, my Lord."

   "Well then," said the Master, his attention turned once more to his
horse.  "What say you, Lanion?  Shall we go for a ride?  It would be nice
to ride together without a battle looming ahead for once, wouldn't it?"

   The horse, Lanion, gave a soft whicker in reply and shifted anxiously in
the pen.

   Methaniel smiled and patted his horse's neck comfortingly.  "Good.  In a
moment we'll be off."

   The Master led his attendant to her own mount, the friendly mare Ahma
had fed oats to.

   "I assume if you know how to ride, you know how to saddle a horse up?"
Asked Methaniel.

   "Yes, my Lord," Ahma said with a shy smile.  "It's been awhile, but I
think I can manage it."

   "Very good," Methaniel replied, and left her to it.

   Ahma quickly rubbed her mount down, talking to the mare quietly and
introducing herself.  The mare kept amiably still while Ahma saddled her
and attached her bridle.  Ahma smiled all the while.  It was truly a joy to
be around horses again.  She hadn't realized how much she had missed it. 
It brought back memories, bitter and sweet all at once.

   Snow crunched under her boots as she led the mare out into the stable
yard.  Methaniel had already mounted up Lanion and led the snorting
stallion in slow circles, patting his long, muscled neck.

   Ahma boosted herself into the saddle and praised the mare gently for how
agreeable she was.

   "I thought that mare would suit you," Methaniel smiled.

   "This is Nemia, I believe.  She`s a darling," Ahma replied.

   Methaniel led them out the gate of the manor and through the streets of
Durinum City.  Many folk milled about, taking advantage in the ebb of the
snow and cold to do as much business as they could before the weather grew
inhospitable again.  The crowd parted as Lanion slowly marched forward,
awed by the enormous horse and his tall, proud rider.  Ahma followed
closely, hoping the crowd would not somehow separate them.

   It was past noon when they arrived at the northern gate.  The guards
nodded them through as soon as they recognized Methaniel for the nobleman
and knight he was.  The two horses trotted along once they cleared the
gate, seeming to enjoy the ride out in the open reaches outside the city as
much as their riders did.  A rough road wound away from the city, off
toward the northern pass.  Deep, muddy tracks from passing wagons mixed
with half melted snow.

   Ahma and Methaniel rode side by side, their pace slow and relaxed as
they basked in the simple pleasures of the outdoors and a slow ride.  They
did not speak, but Methaniel wore a thin smile when she glanced at him, and
his face did not seem as severe as it normally was.

   Half an hour later they struck off from the road, heading east into the
forest.  Trees stretched overhead.  Many had shed their leaves and greenery
for the winter, instead donning their white coats of thick snow piled about
on their branches and pooled about their feet.  The large majority of the
trees clustered about the woods were pines, their soft green needles
peppered with white.  Various other evergreens broke up the nakedness of
the forest.  The packed snow crunched softly under the weight of the horses
hoofs.  Methaniel led them carefully forward, allowing Lanion some rein to
pick his own way through the snowy ground.  The horse's steps were careful
but sure, and if there were any hazards beneath the blanket of snow he
avoided them.  Ahma led Nemia closely behind.

   The forest was quiet and still around them.  Now and again a clump of
snow would fall from the branches overhead upon their passing, showering
them with a light fall of chilling powder.  Ahma couldn't stop herself from
laughing melodiously when the first pile of snow plopped onto the Master's
head, and Methaniel's own wry grin spread wide when the same happened to
her moments later.

   The majority of the snowy underbrush and the thick, bare trees began to
thin ahead of them.  They stepped out of the forest line and halted at the
ledge just beyond.  Ahma's breath caught in her throat.

   She could see why this would be one of his favorite places.  The view
was spectacular; the Northern mountain chain stretched across the sky, a
jagged line of snow-capped peaks, like the bottom of some giant maw poised
to swallow the world.  Their slopes extended downward, filling the majority
of the view, shades of earth and snow and small patches of stubborn
greenery dotting their length.  Small trees clung to the slopes, most as
bare as the others save the clusters of evergreens spread about the
mountain slopes.  At the foot of the mountains, valleys and gorges opened,
yawning expanses ranging in width from a horses leap to the breadth of the
royal capitol itself.

   The sky hung over the white capped mountains, so pale and sallow as to
be almost gray, set against the white of frosted snow and the brown of
winter ravaged earth.  The view was moving, a strange sight that spoke of
death and winter and majestic beauty all at once.  She wondered what a
glorious sight it would be in the full of spring, with such a flood of
greens and plants and colorful flowers spread along the mountains and
valleys.  The Northern Pass wound along just below their feet, leading far
into the mountainous reaches and beyond.

   "This is amazing," Ahma murmured.

   Methaniel nodded, gazing out over the land, his big hands absently
stroking Lanion's sleek, pale coat.  They sat in silence, their mounts
remaining placid and calm.  Ahma pulled her cloak closer as an icy breeze
began to blow off the mountains.

   "When do you return to the front?"

   Master Methaniel turned his gaze to his attendant.  His face remained
expressionless, neutral as it so often was.  "I'm not entirely sure. 
Certain...circumstances prevent me from leaving home right now.  I need to
take stock of some things...assess the situation before I decide my course
of action."

   Ahma bit her lip softly, but she had to ask.  "Does...this have anything
to do with what happened yesterday?"

   The Master turned his eyes upon the mountains.  His face remained
unreadable.  "I cannot speak of this."

   "I understand, my Lord," Ahma murmured.

   Silent moments followed in which both took enjoyment from the view, the
peace, the ease of this place.  The horses had found a patch of ground
under the snow and were idly munching at it.

   "Master," Ahma ventured at last, her eyes downcast.  "When you were at
the front...that is...do you know of two Wingling men?  They should be in
your unit."

   Methaniel turned to her and nodded slowly, his lips twitching into a
momentary smile.  "Ah, yes.  Fahl and Kahr.  Your brothers."

   "So you do know of them," Ahma stated, relief obvious on her face.

   "Indeed.  Good men, both of them.  My closest lieutenants, actually."

   "Lieutenants?" Ahma gasped.  "How did that come about?"

   Methaniels face turned over the wide expanse before them, his eyes
distant.  He looked as if the memory pained him.  "Not long after my father
passed, I was serving at the front far to the south, garrisoned at Fort
Balor, which guarded a stretch of land that is now enemy territory.  I
could have led my fathers unit then and there, but I felt I was too young,
too inexperienced.  I handed the command to another man, and took my place
as a soldier below him with all the rest."

   Methaniel squeezed his eyes shut.  "It is a decision I deeply regret. 
The commander was...inept.  The decisions he made as the Naemer army
advanced upon the fort bordered on sheer idiocy.  He had no real idea what
he was doing, I've come to believe.  As a result, we were soon cut off from
our supply lines, and reinforcements were out of reach.

   "The Naemer knew that we had enough food to last till reinforcements
came, so they began a siege," Methaniel continued.  "It was a massacre.  We
were undermanned and acting under a man who hadn't the sense to command us
properly.  Everyone was in disarray.  The Naemerians outnumbered us
horribly.  If it hadn't been for the fort's heavy defenses, the slaughter
would have been absolute.

   "As it was, our numbers dwindled rapidly.  The commander tried to flee
and took an arrow through the heart.  During a brief lull in the assault, I
took up command.  Fahl and Kahr had become friends with me long ago, and
they were instrumental in rallying support to me.  It was too late, though.
The damage had been done.

   Methaniel fell silent for a moment, nodding to himself before turning
his eyes back to the girl.  "We held as long as we could.  Many died.  Many
Naemer fell, too.  We retreated into the inner most ring of defenses and
fought with all the passion and strength we could muster as the Naemerians
came.

   "I took a deep slash across my chest..." here his hand came to briefly
touch the area where his scar would be, "But I was too far into the rage
and heat of battle to let it stop me.  Your brothers... they swear I fought
as a demon that day, but I believe we all did.  I just knew that if I fell,
more of my men would die.

   "We thought ourselves finished.  Of the eight hundred men stationed at
Fort Balor, just over fifty survived.  Just when we knew our deaths had
come, reinforcements broke through the enemy surrounding the fort and
routed them."

   Ahma's heart pounded at the tale, her attention drawn by the emotion and
memories heavy in her Master's voice.

   "Those who survived swore fealty to me and vowed they would not serve
under any command but mine.  Your brothers were foremost of those
supporters.  I took up the reins of command, and new soldiers were
distributed to me.  Those who were with me at Fort Balor hold my highest
regard, and your brothers are my closest advisors."

   "So they are well, then?" Ahma asked anxiously.

   Methaniel nodded, his eyes holding hers closely.  "Do not fret, Ahma, I
know how you wish to see them.  I will send them on extended leave as soon
as I return to the front.  I would have allowed them to return with me, but
I needed someone I could depend on to watch things in my absence."

   Ahma bent down to rub Nemia's neck.  "I'm glad they do so well for
themselves.  They make me proud."

   "Surely you knew all this, though?" Methaniel asked, his brow furrowing
with confusion.  "I know for a fact that they write you often."

   "Well, yes.  They do," Ahma said haltingly.  She sighed softly.  "Once
the Steward began running the house, he had any letters sent to me thrown
in the fire pit."

   A dark cloud passed over Methaniel's face.  His bright eyes danced
dangerously.  Ahma shivered.  She hoped he never had reason to turn such
displeasure on her.

   "Unforgivable.  I should have had him flogged before sending him away."

   "You sent him away?"

   "Indeed."

   Ahma suppressed the urge to clap her hands in delight.  "I'm glad," she
confessed.  "I'm sure he would have gone back to abusing us all once you
left for the front again."

   Methaniel shook his head, his scowl fading somewhat.  "I think not.  I
would not allow such a person to remain in my household.  I will find a new
Steward and be sure the position is well filled this time.  I will not
abandon my people to such cruelty again."

   Ahma gazed silently at him for several moments.  Nemia shifted
underneath her.  She caressed the mare's mane soothingly, her eyes never
leaving Methaniel.  His eyes glowed with agitation and his face still held
traces of a scowl.  He was so very big, his body packed with muscle, though
he moved with a noble grace and agility that bellied his size.  He was
intimidating to be sure.  Even now, she found him to be so.  But his heart
was that of his father, which was to say, not that of a nobleman.  Warmth
radiated from his rare smile, and his every action seemed dictated by
conscious and justice.

   "You are a very kind man, Master," Ahma said softly.  "I didn't think I
would be happy to serve anyone after your father passed.  I was wrong."

   His smile peaked, erasing all sign of displeasure from his face.  "I try
to do the best for my people."

   The wind gusted up, blowing through the naked trees behind them.  It
pulled at the heavy braid of Ahma's hair.  She shivered and pulled her
wings tighter against her body and snuggled into the folds of her cloak.

   "We should head back," the Master sighed.  "The day wanes and it feels
like the night will bring the cold in all over again.  We'd best be back
inside the city walls before dusk."

   Ahma nodded and took the reins up in hand.  Both gazed at the view upon
the ridge for one last moment before Methaniel led them back through the
quiet woods.

   ***

   It was full dark by the time they arrived back at the Manor.  Ahma was
quite sore after dismounting Nemia.  So long away from the saddle had taken
it's toll on her, it seemed.  Still, she enjoyed it thoroughly.  She
unsaddled the mare and brushed her down, clicking and murmuring
affectionately to her all the while.  She fed her another handful of oats
for being so cooperative and amiable during their ride, then turned her
care over to the stable hand and followed Methaniel back to the Manor.

   As soon as they entered she changed from her soft riding boots into her
more comfortable servant slippers.  Methaniel turned to speak with a
servant for a moment.  Ahma's heart felt warm.  It surprised her.  It was
the first time she had felt anything but sorrow and despair since the
Master's father passed.  She smiled softly as she glanced over at
Methaniel, considering him.

   The two men looked little alike.  Where Methaniel was a massive,
muscular man of such height it made her dizzy, his father had an almost
diminutive stature and little physical presence.  Methaniel had a closed,
reserved way of handling himself, always keeping his expression neutral and
unreadable, while his father had seldom been seen without a wry grin on his
face or boisterous laughter at his lips.  The differences were such that
Ahma wondered what kind of a woman Methaniel's mother had been, that he
contrasted his father so sharply in appearance and mannerisms.

   But for all that the two men were different, the son resembled the
father perfectly in matters of the heart.  Both men had kind, warm, rich
hearts.  They adhered to a conduct of honor and generosity that was unheard
of in either noble or commoner.  They treated all with respect and
kindness, regardless of their place in society.  They both had strong
convictions of justice and proper conduct.

   The fond smile faded from Ahma's soft lips.  Soon, Methaniel would have
to return once more to battle.  It wasn't fair, she thought.  Whether the
new Steward was a worthy and kind person or not, life would be lessened
with him gone.  His presence made the entire estate alive, just as his
fathers presence had.  The Wingling girl hoped he would stay for a few
weeks, at least.  Or perhaps, if he did not find another attendant, she
could go with him to the front to see her brothers.

   And, part of her admitted, to be with him.  Methaniel was foreboding at
first, but he had a humane and warm side once she saw past the gruffness of
a military man.  He was pleasant and enjoyable to spend time with.  He also
took care of himself rather than let an attendant or servant do every
little thing for him.  It showed a level of self-reliance that she found
shocking in a nobleman.

   Methaniel bid the servant a good evening and slid the cloak from his
shoulders.  He hung it on a sturdy wooden peg beside the door and then
nodded to Ahma.

   "Sorry about that," said he.

   "Not at all, my Lord," Ahma smiled.  She felt a yawn coming on and
suppressed it, instead stretching a bit and blinking several times.

   "You look tired," he commented.

   "I'm fine, Master Methaniel," she replied despite the tug of weariness.
She felt a tingle of sweat around her collar and the base of her wings.

   The Master made to reply, but before he could speak a short young lad
marched to him, a prominent look of apprehension creasing his face.

   "M...m'Lord...I have news.  Urgent news," The youth stuttered.

   Methaniel glanced at the young man, his face expressionless.  "Can it
wait?" He asked.

   The young man swallowed heavily.  Methaniel noted the sallow palor of
his face.  "No m'Lord"

   Methaniel nodded and let out a soft sigh.

   "Take an hour to clean up and relax," he said to Ahma.  "Then join me in
my quarters."

   "Yes, Master Methaniel," she replied.  She curtsied and watched as
Methaniel led the youth into the dining room.

   Ahma returned to the servants quarters and spent some time brushing and
re-braiding her hair.  The tresses curled from the tight mesh of her daily
braid, even after she brushed them.  Her hair fell easily back into shape
as she braided it back up.

   Once she finished her hair, Ahma unlaced her bodice and removed the
front of her dress.  She grabbed a small rag and toweled off her neck and
chest.  Despite the chill, the exertion from the ride and day outside had
left a light sheen of sweat upon her.  She cleaned the droplets of sweat
from her heavy breasts, wiping the undersides of them where extra sweat
collected.  She shivered as a draft blew through a crack in the wall and
played across the beads of wetness on her bosom.  She ignored the pleasant
sensation as her soft pink nipples began to harden.  She hadn't had time
for pleasure in some time.  Still, now was not a time for such things
either.  She pulled her dress and bodice back in place.  She glanced over
her wings, pleased with how well the underside of them had taken on the
pale blue so well.  She arranged and preened a few feathers into place
before deciding they looked properly presentable.

   Nearly an hour passed before Ahma headed to the Master's room.  She
paused to admire the Dragon upon the door, appreciating the elegant and
powerful form and the considerable skill of whoever crafted the image.  She
noted that Master Methaniel had left the door slightly ajar.  Taking it as
a sign for her to come in, she entered and shut the door behind her.

   A dinner was placed on the table much like the night before, and the
heart was again lit and crackling.  Methaniel sat in a chair by the window,
gazing into the dark night.  The cheer of the afternoon was gone.

   Whatever the messenger told him was bad news judging by the set of his
posture.  Ahma thought it must be about the war, or perhaps the attack
yesterday morning.  Still glancing at Master Methaniel, Ahma began to lay
out the dishes and utensils upon the table.

   "Master, are you ready to eat?" She asked after she finished and he
still hadn't acknowledged her.

   Methaniel jumped and noticed her for the first time.  He glanced back
out the window, then rose, stretching his legs as he nodded slowly.  "I'm
sorry, Ahma, I hadn't noticed you come in.  Has it been an hour already?"

   "More than an hour," she replied honestly.

   Methaniel motioned for her to sit across from him as she had the other
night.  Ahma took her seat and he served them both.  Their meal was taken
in silence, but it was not the easy and comfortable meal it had been last
night.  Something clearly troubled Methaniel.

   "Did you enjoy the ride today, my Lord?" Ahma asked when she could stand
the tension no more.

   "It was pleasant, yes," Methaniel said.  His eyes did not meet hers.

   "Master?  I was wondering about something," She said after another long
pause.  "How did you know which dye to purchase?  My wings...this
shade...I've been fond of it for a long time.  I wore it often when I was
younger.  I know feather dye isn't very common, but...it seems strange that
you would know." She was grasping at straws, anything she could think of to
break the silence that felt suffocating and dangerous all the sudden.

   Methaniel's gaze shifted to the hearth.  "Azure tail drops.  A rare dye,
even in such a prominent market as Durinum.  Your..."

   His words faltered, he swallowed hard.  A muscle in his cheek jerked. 
His eyes went suddenly cold.

   "Your brothers told me of their little sister and her love for the dye."

   Ahma's heart lifted and her wings fluttered softly.  Her smile was
bright and wide.  "They speak of me!  I am glad.  I had hoped they wouldn't
forget me too much."

   The Wingling girl's smile died on her face as the Master turned empty
eyes upon her.

   "What is it?  Something...to do with my brothers?" Ahma's voice quavered
slightly.

   Methaniel stood slowly and walked to her.  He towered over her.  She
craned her head back to gaze at him, her eyes begging him to tell her all
was well.  Her mouth went dry as he laid a massive hand on her shoulder. 
It nearly covered her shoulder entirely.  She began to tremble.

   "I...I am sorry, Ahma.  The messenger that came...he gave me a report.
My unit has been wiped out.  Slaughtered.  To the man.  They took no
prisoners.  And your brothers...no one escaped."

   Ahma was frozen to her core.  All the world disappeared before her.  Her
brothers were dead?  How?  How could that be?  She knew they were always at
risk, of course.  They had served in the military since the three of them
had arrived in the royal capitol when she was but a young girl.  But they
had remained alive and well for eleven long years, a span of time almost
unheard of in such an intense war.  To have them pass after all this time,
both of them, was unreal.

   Now she was alone.  Her brothers would no longer write or visit her. 
Just like her parents, they were gone.  The very last link to her old life
was erased.

   She choked down the food half chewed in her mouth.  Her hands became
cold and her vision swirled.  Methaniel held her steady, but she felt her
body shaking more violently than before.

   "Their bodies will be coming into the city within a week.  You may claim
them, of course.  I'll pay for a proper burial, with full rights and honors
to them," Methaniel told her softly.

   She shook her head, wordless.  His offer was kind, but not needed.  The
Winged folk did not go back to the earth, but to the sky.

   Methaniel watched her closely.  Her eyes had glazed over, her entire
mind shut down.  He would need to take her back to her quarters.  Looking
at her, at the numb insensibility plain in her features, he decided to give
her some time to collect herself.

   Time passed, moments bending uneasily into what seemed to be an
eternity. Ahma sat and continued to tremble.  Her eyes shone brightly as
she gazed into space.  Three tears slid down her flawless cheeks.  No sobs
or wailing came.  She was too heart broken and stunned for them.

   Just as Methaniel was about to collect her, he caught a whiff of
something upon the air.  He hesitated, inhaling through his nostrils.

   Smoke?

   A scream ripped through the hushed night, followed by a sharp crash and
the sounds of a violent scuffle.  A second agonized cry, then a third.

   "No," Methaniel whispered, releasing Ahma's shoulders and rushing out
into the halls.  The haunting sounds of violence and death filtered into
the room through the open door.  A heavy, choking cloak of smoke drifting
in thick puffs filled the room.

   Ahma froze anew when she heard the smoldering crackle of spreading
flames licking close and closer through the house.

   The Wingling girl scrambled back, falling out her chair and onto her
backside.  Her brown eyes slid up to the ceiling, to the tell-tale orange
glow.  Before her horrified gaze the flames began to swallow and spread
through the ceiling, violently chewing through the wooden roof.  Their
shifting, undulating forms crept along the ceiling.

   The Master leapt into the room, his eyes quickly darting about, ablaze
with their own inner flame.  His wool shirt was ripped and an ugly cut bled
at his side, spreading a trail of red down his flesh.  A dagger was grasped
in his left hand, bloodied and nicked from where it had scraped bone.

   He spun and slammed the door shut, bolting it firmly.  He grabbed a
chair and shoved it firmly under the door handle, jamming it into place,
the only thing he could think to buy them precious time.

   As the flames spread and smoke began to slowly suffocate them, Methaniel
rushed about the room and gathered things rapidly.  He pulled on a new
shirt after shoved a wad of cloth into his wounded side.

   "We must leave now," he spoke as he quickly shoved whatever he could
find use for into his traveling bag.  "I don't have time to explain.  All
is lost if we are not gone, quickly."

   He shoved his heavy boots on and belted his sword to his waist while he
snatched up his riding gloves and shoved them into his pack.  He tossed in
a bulging pouch of coins as well.  His brow furrowed as he turned to the
unmoving Wingling girl.

   "Ahma?"

   Ahma's eyes darted around the room.  She had a confused, scared look in
her eyes, the look of a small, lost child.

   In her mind, all Ahma could hear were the screams of her mother.  Up
until the soldiers lopped off her head, her mother had screamed, begging
for mercy that never came.  Ahma had stayed hidden in the feed shed until
her brothers pulled her from the burning building.  They dragged her from
the flames and the death and the evil, horrible men.  Fahl had one wing
broken during the ordeal.  Only later, when they returned to the charred
remains of the small farmhouse that had been home to bid their final
goodbye to their parents did they find how their mother's death had come.

   The Wingling's had certain beliefs regarding death and the afterlife. 
When the soul left the body, it was said to ascend, rising to the heavens
to serve Father Sky.  A body without a head would never make the journey,
however.  The head was the guiding piece, and without it the way was lost.
The soul wandered, aimless and blind, unable to see their way to heaven
where Father Sky awaited his winged children.  Without a head, their mother
would be lost.

   For one hundred days, amidst their mourning and heartache, Ahma and her
brothers had prayed every night that their father's departing soul could
somehow find their mothers soul and guide her to the heavens.  Sometimes,
when two souls were joined so closely, one soul would not ascend without
the other, and could guide a blinded soul.  They had all prayed the love of
a mate would be enough.

   Ahma whimpered.  She hated her mothers screams.  They echoed in her ears
clearly, deafening her.  She wanted them to stop.  She hated the way the
smoke choked her and the flames licked slowly closer to her skin.  The
sight of the flames burning through the roof had drawn her firmly into her
horrible past.  Now her world was reduced to that horrible night, sitting
in the burning shed as all she had ever known was brutally destroyed by
sword and flame.  Blackness closed in around her, but her ears remained
open, filled only with her mothers soul rending screams.
   


  
Rising Ch. 4