Andre Norton - Ware Hawk

At the sound of that name, Tirtha had drawn so sharp a breath that she realized she had caught the attention of the Falconer. The dead man they had found who had worn the hawk crest—he had been a stranger, but this one… So many years, could it be true?

“You know this man who wears a lord’s ring?” Suspicion was certainly back in the Falconer’s voice.

“There was a child, years ago. The Old Race weds sometimes with the Sulcars. And there were Sulcar-men who rode with the Borderers, though their first allegiance is always to the sea.”

“And the lord’s ring?” Once more he was challenging her. Tirtha sat the straighter in the saddle, met his gaze level-eyed.

“There could be no such true ring. Hawkholme’s lord wore one of its like on his hand when he met death within his own walls. His younger brother, who was apart when the attack came, never possessed it. Perhaps it was loot fallen into Ettin’s hands. He might claim it, but its wearing was never for any half blood.” Her chin was high, and she spoke with force. “Of the true House, I am the last—nor would I have come into Karsten had it been otherwise.”

With his helm on, his face so masked, she felt, as always, at a disadvantage—even though the Falconer’s expression was never easy to read. He could believe her or not. If he chose to brand her liar (and did not his kind think in their innermost minds that all her sex were?), then she could declare their bargain broken and so be rid of the burden of leading him and Alon into dire disaster. For surely he would take the boy with him to save him from further contamination by one who was tainted like her.

However, what he faced her with now was a question that had undoubtedly been eating at him from the very start of this venture.

“What has Hawkholme to offer anyone?”

In other words, Tirtha knew he meant—what did it have to offer a lone woman who ventured into an act of sheer folly in seeking out a ruined and despoiled hold where perhaps no one had gone for more than the length of her own lifetime.

This was it—the moment when she must share part of her confidence or be defeated before she began. How much would he believe—that she had indeed been compelled by dreams to seek out a heritage, the nature of which she herself did not know, save that it was of the utmost importance and that it must be found?

“There lies in Hawkholme that which I must find.” Tirtha chose her words carefully, with no talk of dreams that had pressed so heavily upon her that all her life had led to this journey. “I must seek it out. Only it would seem that there are others who would have it also. I do not know why I must do this,” she felt constrained to add, though perhaps it was self defeating with such a listener. “It is laid upon me. Have you of the Eyrie never heard of a geas?”

Almost she thought that she saw his lips begin once again to shape the word “witchery” as they had done so often before. Yet he did not say it when he spoke after a short moment of silence.

“There was told to us the tale of Ortal…” He might be drawing something from deep memory. “Yes, I have heard of a geas—and of how such may be laid upon one, allowing no freedom until the deed is accomplished. Ortal took ship in the days of Arkel, who was the sixth Master in the Eyrie, because he offended one with the Power, and it was set upon him to obey, and no ransom offer from the Master could break it. It is a hard thing that you do then, Lady.”

That he would accept so readily her explanation of what brought her south was a relief.

“Then you know why I must ride. But again I will say to you, Falconer, and to Alon, this binding is not for you, and you should not follow me. I do not know what lies now in or about Hawkholme, but it is no pleasant or easy thing that I must do.”

He gestured with his claw as if to silence her. “Perhaps this Gerik is a part of what would prevent your accomplishing your task. We ride…” Without another word he pulled ahead a little, and she thought it better not to trouble him with any new protest at this time. That he was a strongly stubborn man she had known from their first meeting. It could well be that he now believed his honor was engaged, which would seal their companionship tighter than any bargain formally struck.

“This Ettin”—she turned to Alon, for he continued to ride beside her as the Falconer drew a little apart—“he was a young man?”

“He looked so. He did not talk much, but he had guesting manners, and Parian took a liking to him. He tried to tell the stranger that to ride alone to the south was a danger for any man, but his answer was always that he did as he must do. He had a fine mail shirt and a plain helm such as the Borderers wore, and his sword was a good one. But he had no dart gun nor any bow such as you carry. He was a good man, I think.”

She remembered a slender, fair-haired boy who had grown so fast, who had ridden with a small border company of patrollers when he was not far out of childhood—for there were few children along the fringe land. They learned early lessons which carried them into playing the parts of men and women. She and he had met twice under the roof that had been her first home, or the roof that had sheltered her from birth, but they had not known each other well. Kin of part blood they were.

How had the Hawk ring come to Ettin, and what had led him to attempt this lone journey ahead of her?

Was he also dream-led? Was there a power playing with them and perhaps with others also, such as that stranger whose mail had borne the Hawk emblem and who had died of wounds in the wilderness? Him she had never seen, nor had she heard of any of her House elsewhere in Estcarp. The Houses and Clans of the Old Race were tight knit, holding together the stronger because all else had been torn from them. If there had been other survivors of Hawkholme, then through the years—as refugees poured over the mountains and thereafter joined the Border legions—such would have drawn together, for there had been much passing of names and messages among all who had fled and were seeking the fate of kinsfolk.

The gravel-paved valley sloped upwards, and the Falconer waved back a signal to dismount, so that they advanced on foot at a slow pace, leading their animals, the bird taking once more to the air. At last, leaving the three beasts to be rein-held by Alon, the girl and the man crawled on their bellies to look down a far slope.

Nearly beyond eye distance traveled a party of riders, seemingly with no desire to hide their presence. To the east Tirtha sighted the landmark that had been so plain in her trance—the cliff with its black bands. She pointed to it.

“That is the first of my trailmarkings.”

“How do they ride?” He lifted the claw in a slight gesture toward the knot of men proceeding easily at a distance-eating trot.

She considered, then had to speak the unhappy truth. “They ride in the same direction as we must go.”

In her own mind she no longer doubted that their destination must be the same as hers—Hawkholme. Was Ettin one of them? No, if he had been among the riders at the garth, Alon would have known him. Nor could she believe that he, being who he was, had been drawn into any service of the Dark.

The Falconer studied the ground before them, in particular the fringe of trees to the east.

“With those for cover, and warnings from the Brother-in-Feathers,” he said slowly, “we follow.”

Tirtha thought of the sinister wood that would form the second stage of their journey. It was fitted perfectly for ambush, so she spoke of it while the Falconer listened. He glanced at the sky. The sun was well west, near time for a night camp, though it must be a dry one, and they might go hungry.