Andre Norton - Ware Hawk

“I do not know.” Tirtha looked about her. If she was only sure they were safe here—perhaps the same drug that had sent her into the vision… But she could not herself seek within the child. That was an art far beyond her. “I know so little!” she burst out, her frustration banking down the anger that had been in her since she had gazed upon the work of those worse than brutes, making her voice rough and hard. “Mind healing or touching is a chancy thing.”

“I wonder…” He rubbed one of the prongs of his claw along the side of his thin cheek as he might draw a finger. “The Brother in Feathers can see where we cannot; can he reach farther than we may hope to?”

“The falcon!” Tirtha stared at him in open amazement. “A bird…”

He frowned. “The Brothers in Feathers are more than birds. There is much they know that we do not. Some of their senses are far clearer and keener than ours. Remember, he saw the child, the illusion did not hold for him. Therefore, if the outward illusion does not blind him, perhaps the inner one might not either. Would it be harmful to try?”

Such a thought had not crossed her mind. However, with his intent stare on her now, she was forced to consider what he said. Such an attempt could cause no harm she could see. And perhaps—just perhaps—it might provide the key to unlock a stubborn door. Slowly she made answer, though her arms tightened involuntarily around the child as she did so. “I see no harm.”

His lips twisted into a ghost of a smile. “But still little good? Well, let us see.”

His claw flashed in the sun as he made a small gesture. The falcon took wing, flying from its perch to light on one of the rocks overshadowing Tirtha and her burden.

Tirtha sensed the flow of energy issuing from the bird. She would not have believed that from such a small body, and that of a species to which most of her kind assigned neither intelligence nor purpose, this summons—for summons it was—could come. Amazed, she stared at the falcon until she became aware of a second strain of energy joined with that which the black winged flyer controlled. Even as a man might draw upon one of his fellows for strength and aid, so now did the falcon draw upon the Falconer. She felt movement before she saw what her companion did; he was bringing forth his weapon of power. Holding it by the blade, he stretched out his hand so that the pommel knob hung steady above the child she held cradled in her arms. The dull gem took on life, within its heart a spark of fire glowed and grew. This was even more impressive and awesome than the light awakened from the rock wall in the valley. She felt now not only a tingle within hand and arm, but through her whole body.

Deliberately Tirtha calmed her mind, set herself to furthering, strengthening, if she could, what the bird summoned. She sensed energy speeding like a dart into flesh, striving to reach to the heart. It sought the very essence of the unseen child whose head rested against her breast.

In and in! The body in her arms twisted in a quick convulsion, so she must tighten her hold to a near bruising grip in order to keep the entranced one steady. There came a thin cry! Of pain? Terror? Perhaps both.

Still the bird raised power, the Falconer fed, the gem blazed.

They sought—surely they could go no deeper lest they carry death with them, while the one who was so sealed away fled their seeking!

Again the small body arched in Tirtha’s arms. An invisible fist thudded against her breast, as the mewling cry grew stronger, so that she tried to feel for the mouth in a head that turned back and forth on her arm, to press her hand over it, to stifle any sound that might carry in these dangerous hills.

The gem pommel became so brilliant a ball that Tirtha dared not look directly at it. To whom had that belonged and what sorcery had gone into the forging of such a blade?

Then the falcon gave a croaking cry. Tirtha sensed that it was fast nearing the end of its strength. The body she held continued to struggle. She was able to sense now not just life, which had been near to the borderline of extinction, but overwhelming and terrible fear like a black cloud streaming upward about her to bemuse and stifle her own mind.

There was…

In her arms she held a child she could see. Its face was twisted, wrought into an ugly mask of terror so intense that perhaps sanity was lost. Tirtha drew on her healer’s comfort, strove to pour down and in the quiet confidence which was a large part of that talent. She made herself picture a wide meadow, bright and open under the sun, a sky untroubled by even the smallest cloud. And through that open land, where fear was unknown, the child she held—yes, now that she could see it she could mind-picture it—ran in happy delight.

Tirtha fought to hold, refine that vision, let it fill her mind and flow outward.

“Nothing to fear.” It was a growing rhythm, an unvoiced chant within her. “Safe—safe—no fear—safe.”

She was no longer aware of either bird or man, only of the pitiful creature she so held and tried to comfort.

“Safe—no fear—safe.”

The open meadow, the flowers she visioned growing to charm the eye with their color, to catch and hold even a most fleeting attention, the cloudless sky…

“Free—no fear.”

The child’s body, which had been stiff, taut, rigid in her hold, began to relax. Was this the relaxation of an outer covering of flesh that had been tried too far and too long—a withdrawal of life essence shocked out of its chosen hiding place? She could not tell.

“Safe—safe…” Tirtha strove to increase her flow of assurance, even as she would have with some injured animal, as she had times in the past tried so to heal or comfort.

Those eyes, which had been screwed so tightly shut, slowly opened. Dark gray they were, and with that in them which she recognized. This was blood of her people—the child was one of the Old Race.

The mouth, which had so shortly before shaped those woeful cries, opened a little. There came from between bitten lips, where flecks of dried blood had gathered in the corners to mark the small chin with a dribbled stain, a sigh.

Tirtha dared now to try to reach the child’s mind directly. It was free and it was still sane! She had hardly dared hope for that!

With a joyful cry of her own, she embraced her charge closely, crooning a wordless murmur of relief and thanksgiving. Then there shot into her own mind, so sharp and clear it might have been spoken aloud by the child, a touch her fumbling attempts could never have produced.

“Gerik!” Fear flamed with that name as a fire might rise when fresh wood is laid onto its blaze.

“There is no Gerik here.” She summoned words. To answer mind to mind was no skill of hers. “I am Tirtha and this…” For the first time she looked to the Falconer a little at a loss. She had never asked his name, knowing well that they did not yield such to those outside their own kind.

“I am Nirel, little brother,” he answered for himself, speaking to the child. There were runnels of sweat down his face, gathering in large drops to drip from his chin. He had sometime during that battle swept off his helm, so the child who turned his head could see him plainly.

Little brother? Yes, it was a boy she held, which surprised her. For so legendary was it that such power of illusion could only be summoned by a woman, Tirtha had been certain she had carried out of that carnage a small girl. He was young, but perhaps older than his size would suggest, and his body, hardly covered by a short, tattered shiftlike garment, was brown and wiry. The dark hair of the Old Race had a slight wave where one longer lock fell across his forehead, near touching his level brows. What looked out of his eyes, though, was nothing of a young child.