Rising Ch.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.”