Andre Norton - Ware Hawk

“If you know anything of these”—she gestured to the rod he now held—“you also know that they are sealed secretly and that only those who carry such and perhaps their close kin—or a sword brother, a shield mate—know the trick of the fastening. This man was no kin to me—I cannot loose his secrets.”

It might become necessary to try, at some point, Tirtha thought, even if it meant destroying the container. Though again that could well threaten any contents. She wanted very much to know who the stranger was, why he rode these mountains. Had he also been headed for Karsten? Would it advance her case with this other, whose distrust now appeared so tangible that she could feel it, if she were to tell more of her story? She shrank from such a self-betrayal. Her quest was hers alone, a precious thing to be doubly guarded because, if she told the story properly, he might well consider it either part of an hallucination spun for some dark purpose or think it the dreaming of a stupid woman, such as he was already certain she must be.

He was inspecting the faint line of cleavage at the top of the rod closely. Certainly there was no lock or fastening here. Now his eyes sought hers again through the helm slits.

“You call yourself Hawkholme—perhaps so did that one.” He used the rod itself as a pointer to indicate the mound they had built. “Yet you say he was a stranger. I know the Old Race well. They are closely kin-tied as a part of their heritage.”

Tirtha shook her head slowly. “Yes, we are kin-tied—just as securely as you are tied to your sword-brothers. Still I found you alone in Romsgarth and you answered to Blank Shield—is that not the truth? Where then are those you shared comradeship with?”

Those yellow sparks in his eyes blazed. She saw his lips move as if he wished to lash out at her with words of hot abuse. What had brought him without his bird—in such a sorry state—into Romsgarth? She had never heard that it was in any Falconer born to leave his company, to drift alone. It was as if they held a wall against the whole world and could not see past that barrier into any other way of life.

Tirtha had no wish to force an answer from him. What lay behind him was his own concern. But he must grant to her the same dignity of no questions. However, she could yield a little, without laying bare all that had driven her through the years.

“We were horned in Karsten, hunted without warning, as the farmers sometimes hunt hares in the spring—beating the fields to bring them into a circle where they can be clubbed and killed. So was the Old Race hunted. Though we”—she raised her head proudly, meeting him stare for stare—“fought and did not cower and scream beneath the clubs. It was death and blood from the hunting packs for us or any who dared to give warning.

“Some of us got into Estcarp. The Borderers were Karsten warriors. You must know that—your own people rode with them. But there was a breakage of kin lines. Some holds were overrun, none of their folk escaping. From others a handful might flee safely. I…” Her hand sought that well-worn sword, brought it out of its scabbard into the light. “I am of the Blood of two who fled so. Hawkholme went down, but the younger brother of the Lord and his newly wedded wife were not within its walls. They had gone to a guesting with her kin and so were closer to the border—to freedom. There was a farseeing—for in my mother there was some of the talent—and she saw death. I am the last of Hawkholme.” She slammed the sword back into its scabbard. “Who this stranger was—that I cannot tell you. For farseeing does not lie and it was plain—Hawkholme went into the fire and with it all those of the Blood.”

“Farseeing…” he repeated and paused.

She nodded. “Witches’ trick—would you call it that, Falconer? To each race its own secrets. You have talents, even if they are not of a Wise Woman’s summoning. How else could you have trained your birds, kept so well the watch in these mountains before they were moved? I do not disdain what you have of your own; see that you do not try to lessen what my people possess either. I have not the real talent, but I have seen it work, and well, many times over! Now,” she reached forward, and before he could prevent it, she had plucked the record rod out of his fingers. “What do you say that we move on? You have said that the dead died of…”

Something glinted behind his shoulder. She caught sight of it and stiffened. He must have read her expression, for he slewed about, sword ready. Only what he saw was not moving, certainly had not yet presented any threat. It was visible on the valley wall above this strip of meadow, and no living thing could perch on that perpendicular height.

The angle of the sunlight now brought a definite pattern into sharp visibility. Without conscious volition Tirtha moved forward, brushing past the Falconer, her full attention claimed, as if she were indeed ensorceled by those shiny lines which spiraled, outward, becoming more and more distinct.

As Tirtha pushed through a last screen of brush, unheeding when it caught at her garments, laid scratches across her hands, she saw that the whole face of the cliff must have been shorn away during the troubling of the mountains. But if that were so, then what was so plainly visible now must have been hidden deep before. For what purpose?

What she read was a sign she had seen only once before, when she had wintered in Lormt, that greatly revered and nearly deserted repository of truly forgotten knowledge. She had made herself useful in a barnlike barracks once dedicated to the use of scholars and legend-keepers, now inhabited by a handful of the very old, some still delving into rolls and records, others content to doze away the latter days of their lives—a haven for those withdrawing from the cold winds of the world as it was.

That symbol had been on a scroll unrolled on a table where one of the most forgetful of those Tirtha had come to look upon as her charges had left it. She had researched during scraps of free time, striving to learn anything that could be of service in the future task which she had set herself. So she had asked concerning that symbol, to be told that it was indeed very old, once a defense against any encroachment of evil where it had been pictured or inlaid or engraved after proper ritual. Now it shone out here, apparently set into the stone.

But why? Tirtha swung around to view the pocket of valley. What lay here, to be protected in days beyond modern reckoning? Or had it been intended for this valley at all? The churning of the mountains must have brought it into sight. What had it once guarded in hiding?

“What is it?” The Falconer came to stand shoulder to shoulder with her. He had not returned his blade to its sheath. Now, with his claw, he pulled off his helm as if he could so see those marks the clearer.

“That is a strong defense against the Dark—one used in very ancient times to hold safe a portion of the land as no wall or steel could—more witchery, warrior,” she added, a fraction of mockery in her tone. “I wonder…”

That thing they had slain in the night—it was certainly not of Estcarp, nor Karsten either. There was that war which still raged to the eastward between the Shadow and the Light. Had such a conflict once touched this land? Mystery upon mystery. Yet below that mark on the wall, unless all she had ever learned was false, there lay safety.

Had the dead man fought to reach this valley because of it? Not wounded by dart or steel, but by claws and fangs. Had he suffered those wounds some distance away and headed for this small island of safety—reached it too badly injured to live?

“This is wild land.” Now the Falconer sheathed his weapon, his helm swung in his claw. “Who would put such a safeguard here?”