The Falconer’s Daughter

By Emily Hutnyak

If this last bird doesn’t reach my father, I don’t have any hope left.

I choke on a sob, cradling the raven. “Take my message to him. Please.”

Ever since that slip down the mountainside left me with a badly sprained leg, I knew this day would come. I just didn’t think it would be before summer ended.

My fingers shake as I double-check the security of the note tied to my raven’s leg.

“Home.” It’s all I can say with my throat in knots.

I open my hands, letting the bird launch into the air. I glimpse it through the branches above my head as it circles several times before flying in the direction of the castle.

Surely this one will reach Father, and he’ll listen to the desperate words I scrawled on my last scrap of parchment.

I said I was wrong. Isn’t that what he wanted? Didn’t he always warn me my foolish pride alone was putting me in danger?

Well, I see that now and regret it from the bottom of my soul. But is it too late?

Sighing, I swing the crude crutches I made out of fallen branches under my arms and limp back through the trees. I glance into the thicker parts of the woods. A chill ripples over my arms, but I think I’m alone.

I hope I’m alone.

I look back at my prison. The cabin could be considered quaint and sweet, I suppose, with flowers lining the pebbly path to its door and dainty decorations covering its interior. That’s what the royal ladies say when they see it. But the seclusion that draws them to it is the very thing I hate. Its small windows glare at me like angry eyes as I draw closer.

If its weathered boards could speak, I’m sure they’d scold me like everyone else.

It was the perfect place to hide, I thought, when I came here at the end of spring. Father only uses it when on hunting trips with the King and his family, and then only in late fall.

Which has turned out to be more of a curse than a blessing. But how was I to know that outlaws occasionally roam this part of the woods and use the cabin as a place to spend the night?

I’m just glad they were easy to frighten away with a white sheet and a couple strangled screams.

The door lets out a complaining creak as I shove it open and stumble inside. The stench of rotting plants mixed with the cabin’s usual musty odor turns my stomach, and I gag.

The meager pile of wilted and slimy greens on the table is just as taunting as the scratches in the wood they lie next to. It’s been nine weeks since I arrived here. Eighth Month has begun, and I don’t have enough food to make it to fall.

By the time Father leads the royals up here, I’ll have long since starved to death or been captured by bandits. The rebellious Falconer’s daughter will be nothing but a memory, her angry words forgotten.

Why did I run, anyway? To nurse my wounded pride, I guess. To prove I could tame my ravens as well as the majestic falcons. They’re smarter than the stuck-up raptors, anyway. Like me.

Or that’s what I used to think. How ironic that stupidity on their part and mine may be what fails to save my life.

I ease myself into the chair at the table, sucking in a sharp breath as my leg screams in protest.

I should be in the falconry with my father right now. I should be weaving headdresses out of fallen feathers as Father tells me stories. I should be—

No. If I lost all of that, it was my fault, and I can’t change it now.

“I’m sorry, Father.” I rest my forehead on the worn tabletop. “I just want to come home.” The pressure of tears builds up behind my eyes. “Why aren’t you here? I know I was a horrible daughter, but… don’t you miss me sometimes?”

Sudden shouts carry on the hot, sticky breeze through the still-open door.

I snatch up my crutches and shut and lock the door. Hopefully whoever’s out there is making too much noise to have heard that.

Of all the times for outlaws to come looking for a place to spend the night, they had to pick now? When I’m little more than a helpless target?

“Please.” I mouth the word as I slide down the door. Can’t they just move on? I don’t want this to end that way.

It’s slow torture, hearing the men draw closer, their muffled shouts unceasing.

Shivering despite the summer heat, I huddle against the door, ear pressed to the wood.

I hear their horses stop in front of the cabin. Their yells have died down to a quiet murmur of conversation I can’t quite pick up.

Quick footsteps approach, and I cower in the dim shadows. My whispered “no” is lost in sharp knocking.

I’m left in terrifying silence for a brief moment, my heart beating a frantic rhythm. They didn’t knock last time.

This is worse.

“Avis?”

It can’t be.

“Avis?” The call is louder this time. “Are you there?”

“Father!” I stagger to my feet and tumble backward, shrieking as my injured leg slams into the floorboards.

A key rattles in the lock. The door flies open, revealing Father silhouetted against the glaring sunlight.

He crouches by my side an instant later, the look in his eyes the same as when he’s tending to an injured bird. “We came as fast as we could, sweetheart. Are you—”

I cut off his words off with a fierce hug. “Father, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” The tears flow down my cheeks, but this time I don’t care.

“Shh,” he whispers, cradling me. “It’s okay. I forgive you.”

I’ve never heard such sweet words in my life.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Emily Hutnyak is a young writer with dreams that touch the sky and an overactive imagination. She spins stories about teens like herself finding their place in the world and tales of the light and hope that can be found even in the darkest of places. When she’s not writing, you can generally find her hanging out with friends and family, reading, or, on rare occasions, venturing outside to get some fresh air and sunshine.

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