Andre Norton - Ware Hawk

“Little Brother”—the Falconer spoke in a voice that Tirtha had never thought to hear—“break that tie, do it swiftly! Yes, there is evil, but it does not touch you.”

Alon raised his head. His eyes were closed; from under their lids, tears streaked down through the dust and grime on his thin cheeks. “It does, it does!” Now his hands became fists, and he no longer clung to the Falconer, rather pummeled him vigorously. “It is pain for all of us when evil strikes at the Light!”

“Well enough,” the Falconer answered. “But we do not spend our own strength heedlessly. There is evil there, and without a doubt, we must face it sooner or later. Do not let it fore-weaken you, Little Brother. You have that within you which is ready for the battle when it comes, only it must not be wasted.”

Alon stared up into the half-masked face, then smeared one hand across his own. “You are right,” he said slowly, once more that odd note of seeming maturity back in his voice. “What strength one has must he saved for a time when it is most needed. I… I will not…” He fell silent as if whatever promise he would make was to himself. Then he detached himself from the Falconer and looked again to Tirtha.

“They have not thought of us. I think that they are sure we could never have won through the wood. They believe themselves—for now—safe!”

“They are indeed singularly lax,” the Falconer observed slowly. “Why have we seen no sentry? And if they expected the forest to stop us, then why did we so easily win through?”

“Perhaps because of what you carry.” Tirtha indicated the weapon once more within that inadequate sheath at his belt.

“Or perhaps”—there was a lightly sharper note in his voice—“because you made pact with that forest runner.”

Anger such as she had not felt for days flared in her. “I made no pact. I have not come here to reclaim any lordship. If he wishes that ill-omened wood to rule, then it is his. You heard me deny all fiefdom over it! Also, from what he said, he has no close ties with those ahead. I think it would suit him very well if we finished each other off without any meddling from him.”

“A safe and trusty plan for him ,” admitted the Falconer dryly. “It remains that, if we are not expected, this is the time when we should move.”

“Across the open fields, crawling over the remains of the bridge, fording the moat.” Tirtha reckoned up the utter folly of such action. To her the problem facing them was a nearly insurmountable barrier.

“In the open day, perhaps not,” the Falconer conceded. “We have the night; also we must not go into action without rest. Alon,” he addressed the boy now, “Wind Warrior can tell us only what he sees. Can you perhaps let us know if there is any hidden move toward seeking us out?”

The boy did not reply at once, nor did he any longer look at the two of them, rather down at the dirty hands locked together about his knees. He appeared so small, so childish, that Tirtha wanted to protest. Talent—Power—he might possess that beyond many Wise Ones, but drive him too far, and he could once more escape into that other existence. And perhaps a second time they could not draw him back.

He raised his head at last, and still not looking around, he answered in a low voice, “I dare not hold on them—on what they do there. I can—cannot! But if they seek us through any ensorcellment, yes, that I shall know—of a certainty I shall know!”

“We ask no more than that. Also, we shall watch by turn. You, Little Brother, and you, Lady, must rest first. I await Wind Warrior, for to me only can he deliver his report.”

Tirtha shared her cloak with the boy, and they curled up together, her head pillowed on the saddle bags, his on her shoulder. She carefully kept in mind that she would not dream, for it could be that even dreams might alert whoever ruled in Hawkholme now.

She roused out of what turned out to be but a light doze often broken, though Alon seemed sunk far into the depths of a heavy sleep. Her shoulder was numb under the weight of his head. There came again the soft sound that had disturbed her. The Falconer and his bird, their heads close together, were exchanging twitters. Then the bird quieted down, to settle on one of the stones, apparently done with its tour of duty. The man took off his helm and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a smudge of stone dust there. He seemed to sense that he was being watched, for he turned his head quickly, and his eyes met hers.

Cautiously Tirtha slid away from Alon. The boy sighed, turned on his side, and curled up. She left the cloak huddled over him and pulled herself up to join the man.

“Well?”

“Not so well. There are broken roofs yonder, so Wind Warrior was able to see more than we had hoped. The party—those we followed—are there. But they met with others who had a prisoner. The boy”—he glanced at Alon and then quickly away—“was right. They have been using their captive foully. Perhaps they believe him the one they have been seeking.”

Tirtha’s teeth closed on her lower lip. He need add no details. She had seen and heard much of how outlaws handled those they amused themselves with or would pry information from for their own purposes. What they had looked upon at the garth as this Gerik’s doing had made very plain what tricks he thought worth the trying. But there was something else in the Falconer’s words.

“The one they have been seeking,” she repeated. “You believe then they have been waiting for me?”

“For you or another with the Hawk blood. There was the dead man, and he whom Alon told me of, the one who wore the Lord’s own ring and you said was half-blood. Why should you all be drawn here?”

Why indeed? She considered that. In her pride she had believed herself to be the only one of the kin so summoned. There might well have been others; even a half-blood would answer if a geas call came strong enough. It might be that someone, or something, had indeed summoned any who had enough of Hawk blood to answer, and that these had all been burdened by the same command. If so, the one this Gerik amused himself with now was kin, and his blood debt would fall on her.

“Yes,” she said softly. “Though it was my belief that I was the last of the true blood—the full blood—yet it could be so.”

“What do you know of that pile over there?” A jerk of his head indicated the ruined holding.

“I have seen part of it in dreams.” The time had come when she must be utterly frank with him. “The great hall and a secret place beyond it. Therein what I seek is hidden or was hidden. I do not know”—her frankness swept her on as days earlier she would never have believed possible—“ what I so seek, only that it must be found. That is the geas laid upon me.”

“Little enough.” His tone was flat. “You have no other knowledge—none of its doors or how it might be entered?”

She was forced to shake her head, resenting that she must seem so stupid in his eyes. Why had her dreams not given her more? To her this ignorance seemed so utterly defeating that she knew again some of the soul-darkness that had struck her on the way.

“There is that which you found with the dead.”

Tirtha started, her hand went quickly to her belt pouch. She had forgotten that bit of over-written skin. Now she pulled it out with desperate eagerness, smoothing the scrap upon the nearest flat surface.

Together they bent over it, but still the lines there made no sense. If it possessed a secret, Tirtha could not connect it with the ruined hold. There was no indication of a wall or passage, anything that looked to be a guide.

“Ritual perhaps,” she said at last. Nor did he deny her identification.