Ladyhawke

by Joan D. Vinge

  Navarre looked down at the hawk; she looked back at him with yellow, inhuman eyes. He shut his own eyes against the pain.

  “But then she remembered a . . . gesture of yours—the way you had of running your fingers down from the back of her ear . . . tracing the line of her chin . . .”

  Navarre opened his eyes to the vision, felt them burning with his unshed tears.

  “. . . touching her lips . . .” Phillipe went on, with such tenderness that he might actually have known that moment too, “. . . and her eyes glowed—no, she glowed—the entire person—as she remembered you . . . ‘releasing a smile . . . then covering it with a kiss.’ ”

  Navarre looked down at the hawk again. She gazed into the wind, searching the sky for signs unknowable to a man, while he searched her eyes for the things she would never comprehend. And yet, always the hawk was drawn irresistibly to him, as the wolf was drawn to her. He looked back at Phillipe, his smile filling with sorrow. Even their wild, uncomprehending animal selves were not called to their own kind, but only to a human mate, who could give them no solace. “Did you know that hawks . . . and wolves . . . mate for life?”

  “No,” Phillipe said. His eyes darkened with understanding.

  “The Bishop didn’t even leave us that, boy,” Navarre said wearily. “Not even that.” He looked ahead again, reined in suddenly. His face hardened.

  Imperius sat in a mule-drawn cart, blocking the path ahead. His eyes were clear, and perfectly sober. “Still planning to kill His Grace?”

  Navarre’s hand went to his sword hilt again. “You’re the one I ought to kill, old man,” he said. “And I will, if you keep following me.”

  Imperius lifted his head. “Follow me, then. To Aquila. Where two days from now you can face the Bishop in the cathedral, with Isabeau by your side—and watch as the Evil One claims his reward.” He turned his mule cart up the slope.

  Navarre’s hand tightened over his sword. He would not listen—he would not let this guilt-crazed old man ease his own soul by stretching out their agony for even one more day. “I’ll be in Aquila tomorrow,” he said, his voice as bitter as the wind. “One way or the other—there will finally be an end to it.”

  Imperius turned to Phillipe imploringly. “Tell him he’s wrong! Tell him to give me a chance!”

  Navarre glared at Phillipe. The boy looked down at the ground, clearing his throat. “One day more or less . . . what could it matter? Why not give him a chance?” he murmured.

  Navarre felt the last small corner of human warmth inside him freeze. “You too,” he said in disgust.

  Phillipe looked up at him, stung; held his gaze with pleading eyes. But the boy said nothing more, as if he already knew that it was useless. The icy wind whistled across the snow, curling around them like a lash.

  “Stay here, then,” Navarre said at last. “With the old man. Drink—and delude each other with dreams.”

  Phillipe shook his head. “I’m coming with you.”

  “No,” Navarre said. He saw the boy stiffen with stubborn defiance. “There will be too many at my front to have to watch my back as well.” He wheeled his horse around, so that he did not have to see the stunned hurt that filled Phillipe’s face, and spurred away up the hill.

  Phillipe sat unmoving on his horse’s back, staring down at the snow, his mouth tight.

  “You did the honorable thing, little thief,” Imperius said quietly. “You spoke the truth.”

  “I should have known better.” Phillipe looked up with bleak eyes, shivering as the wind pulled at his flapping blanket. “Every happy moment in my life has come from lying.”

  Navarre rode alone, a stark black figure lost in an immensity of white. He was glad to be alone, relieved that he had shaken off the last of the obstacles that stood between him and his fate . . . the last of the people who could be destroyed by it. He had lost all control over his life; but at least his death would be his own choice.

  The hawk huddled close beneath his cloak. She nipped his hand in irritation, at the cold and his insistence on taking them through it. He looked down at her, filled with sudden affection and sorrow. At least this was the last suffering he would have to put her through. There would never be another winter of freezing nights without shelter for Isabeau, another spring without the touch of the sun or an autumn without the color of changing leaves . . . There would be an end to it, one way or another. Their lives were one, and when they died together, perhaps God in His mercy would finally grant them peace, or at least forgetfulness.

  Until then, she did not need to know where they were going, or why. Let her be spared that, at least. He looked up again at the fields of snow, and let their blinding glare fill his eyes until he could see nothing at all.

  C H A P T E R

  Fifteen

  Phillipe sat beside Imperius in the cart, gratefully wrapped in a sheepskin, as the surefooted mule followed Navarre’s tracks through the snow. His own horse plodded behind them, tied to the back of the cart; his stiff legs were equally glad of the change. Navarre would outdistance them today if he didn’t stop for sleep. But he would still have to stop for the night . . . Tonight they would be able to explain everything to Isabeau, and, God willing, make her believe it. Then, even if Navarre refused to listen, together they would find a way to make sure that he had no choice.

  He looked up at the ever-rising mountain slope, at the afternoon sun slowly rolling down the sky. Until nightfall, there was nothing to do but follow, and wait. He stifled another yawn and rubbed his eyes. The wind swirled around them again, sending up flurries of white from the snowfields. He looked over at Imperius tentatively, his mind searching for a way to fill the time. “You’re a man of science, Imperius . . .”

  The monk sat up straighter. “I like to think so,” he said with satisfaction.

  “Then tell me: Where does the wind come from?”

  Imperius shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “And why does the sun make a man’s skin dark, but bleach linen white?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea.” The monk shook his head.

  “And where does a flame go when you blow it out?”

  “Ah!” Imperius murmured. “Where, indeed . . .”

  Phillipe glanced over at him. “Do you mind my asking you all these questions?”

  “Don’t be silly, my son,” the old monk said placidly. “How else will you learn?”

  Isabeau sat listlessly beside the campfire, huddled beneath Navarre’s cloak. Beyond the ring of firelight, the frost-haloed sliver of the waning moon bathed the frozen river and its snowy banks with dim blue light. Spare wood lay neatly stacked for her beside the fire, but she had found Navarre’s sword lying untended in the snow nearby when she had entered the camp. There was no sign of Phillipe, or even his horse, no second set of tracks leading here. Surely he could not have left them. She couldn’t believe it, not after last night . . . Her hands tightened into fists on the heavy black wool of the cape.

  She knew that Navarre was taking them back to Aquila. But why? Had he finally lost hope? Phillipe had been evasive and reluctant when she had tried to press him for details, and her courage had failed her as she realized what his reason must be. She could guess easily enough why he would not answer her. For two years Navarre had haunted these hills, waiting for a chance to reach the Bishop—to lift the curse that had been set upon them, or take his revenge for it. But there was no way to lift the curse; and so there was only one choice left. And perhaps it was the right one, after all . . .

  Her hatred had never been the same as Navarre’s. She had seen what her father’s impulsiveness and ready sword had done to him—ending his own life, and not the lives of the enemies of his God. She had not wanted revenge, at first; she had only wanted to run away. But she had come to understand Navarre’s obsession with staying—for where could they go, where could they live that would not be a living hell?

  Instead she had turned her own helpless anger in on herself; she had blamed herself f
or the Bishop’s wantonness, and all the suffering it had brought to them. In the depths of her grief she had taken her dagger and cut off the golden hair that had once fallen past her waist, that Navarre had loved so much, and left it on the ground for him to find.

  But in time she had realized that she was not to blame for the Bishop’s lust . . . that only he was to blame. She had gone on cutting her hair short like a man’s, because it was more practical, and a useful disguise for an unprotected woman alone. She had learned to live with loneliness instead of despair. And she had grown to understand Navarre’s need for vengeance.

  The memories of last night flickered in her mind again—the wolf lying dead, the hunter lying crushed in his own trap . . . Phillipe. Where was he? Where? And where was the wolf?

  As if in answer the wolf howled, somewhere in the distance. Isabeau’s shoulders loosened; she looked out across the frozen river toward the sound.

  Snow crunched underfoot behind her. She turned back, startled, to see Phillipe emerge slowly from the trees. She smiled, radiant with relief and joy. “There you are!” she said, trying without success to sound as if she had merely been expecting him. She looked down self-consciously. “It suddenly seemed . . . so different, spending a night without you.”

  Phillipe stopped, staring back at her for a long moment, as if he could not get enough of the sight of her. Then he glanced down and said, as if he hated the sound of every word, “This may be . . . our last night together, Isabeau.”

  “No . . .” she whispered, in disbelief and disappointment. She rose from the log. “Why?” She wondered what reason there could be that would not break her heart.

  He looked up again, his eyes bright with determination. “There’s a chance to break the curse.”

  Isabeau stared at him, speechless.

  “I didn’t want to torture you with possibilities,” he said quickly, as if he knew what must be filling her mind now. “I didn’t want to tell you until I believed—really believed—that it could happen. We have a plan . . .”

  “We?” she asked eagerly. “You and Navarre?”

  Phillipe suddenly looked very guilty. “No. Me . . .” He glanced toward the woods. “And him.”

  Brother Imperius stepped out of the shadows. Disappointment stabbed her cruelly. Only that drunken old man, whose weakness had betrayed them . . . who had saved her life, when it could have been cleanly ended.

  But he came toward her resolutely, to stand beside Phillipe. “Please, Isabeau, you must hear me,” he said. “For Navarre’s sake, if not for your own.” She looked at the two men, young and old, standing side by side. Their faces swore their belief to her—their wills were united in their need to make her share it.

  She nodded, and sat down again by the fire to listen.

  She believed them, Phillipe and Imperius went to work, digging out a pit in the solidly packed snowdrift along the bank of the frozen river . . . a pit to trap a wolf. The knowledge that they had an ally gave them fresh energy, and soon they had dug down until the icy walls reached above their heads. Somewhere across the river the wolf howled again. Isabeau kept watch, waiting to lure him into the trap when the time came, or lead him away if he came too soon. If they could only keep the wolf—and the man—prisoner for twenty-four hours, then Navarre would have no choice but to arrive in Aquila on the right day.

  Phillipe chipped a final chunk of the heavy compacted snow free from the wall with his dagger, sending ice chips flying into Imperius’s face.

  The monk brushed snow from his hair. “Watch where you’re digging, you impossible dunderhead!” he snapped, testy with unaccustomed effort and sobriety. He swung around, knocking Phillipe into the wall of the narrow pit.

  “Watch it yourself, or I’ll leave you down here for the wolf’s dinner.” Phillipe picked up the chunk of snow with numb hands and pitched it out onto the pile at the pit’s rim. His own fatigue and temper were nearly as bad as Imperius’s by now.

  They stood side by side, looking up at the slick, icy walls of the pit. Navarre’s sword was driven deeply into the snow beyond the pit’s rim. Without the rope dangling from its hilt, they would never be able to climb out. Surely it would hold the wolf. He looked questioningly at Imperius, and the monk nodded his satisfaction.

  Imperius took hold of the rope, testing its strength. “Me first.” He grasped the rope. “You’ll have to push.” He began to pull himself upward with a gasping effort, his feet planted against the wall.

  Phillipe pushed dutifully, grunting, “When you kneel before the altar . . . how do you get up again?”

  Imperius frowned darkly over his shoulder as he heaved himself up out of the pit. He lay panting in the snow as the wolf howled again. The sound was louder than before. “Quickly!” Imperius whispered. “He’s coming!”

  Phillipe caught the rope and scrambled up out of the hole. He got to his feet and shook ice chips out of his clothes; pulling Navarre’s sword from the snow, he drew the rope up out of the pit. Isabeau stared out across the river. The wolf called again, closer now. She glanced back at them, with sudden uncertainty in her eyes as she faced the moment of betrayal.

  “It’s the only way,” Phillipe whispered. “Do it!” He circled the mound of snow they had made beside the pit and lay down flat on his stomach, the sword at his side. He tossed back handfuls of white powder to cover his legs. Imperius lay down heavily next to him and did the same.

  Watching Isabeau from their hiding place, they saw her stiffen as she caught sight of the wolf. It came trotting up the snowy hillside from the distant timberline; it stopped, sniffing, searching the air for her scent. Isabeau stepped out onto the frozen river, trying to draw its attention. The ice creaked under her feet. The wolf pricked its ears, looking toward her. It started forward again, loping up the hillside; halted as it reached the far side of the river. Isabeau halted too, glancing down uncertainly at the ice beneath her feet. She looked up again, held out her hands.

  “That’s right, Isabeau,” Imperius whispered. “Lead him to the pit . . .”

  The wolf started out across the ice. Phillipe heard the ice creak with his passage. Sliding and slipping as his feet lost traction on the slick surface, he came to her, drawn by an urge as irresistible as it was forever incomprehensible to him.

  Isabeau backed cautiously toward the shore, her eyes always on the wolf as she drew him toward the pit. He followed her step by step. Suddenly Isabeau stumbled; Phillipe heard her gasp as her foot went through the ice. He pushed himself up, watching wide-eyed as she caught her balance and scrambled frantically back toward the bank.

  As the wolf saw her stumble and the ice break, he bolted forward, running to her as she fled toward safety. Abruptly the ice gave way beneath him, and a vast black pool opened and swallowed him up. Isabeau spun around as she heard him fall through the ice. She ran heedlessly back onto the frozen river.

  “Oh, my God!” Phillipe pushed himself to his feet, grabbing up Navarre’s sword and the rope. He vaulted over the pile of snow and ran toward the shore.

  The. wolf broke the surface of the water, thrashing wildly as he clawed at the icy rim of the pool. He sank from sight again. Isabeau lay flat at the edge of the hole and plunged her arm into the freezing water. Catching hold of a fistful of fur, she pulled with all her strength. The wolf’s struggling, submerged body dragged her own body forward over the slick ice to the rim of the hole, but still she did not let go.

  Phillipe threw himself down at the edge of the river and clamped his hands over Isabeau’s ankles. He pulled her back from the brink with the strength of desperation. But his own feet lost all traction as he pulled harder.

  The wolf surfaced again, snarling in confusion and pain, dragging them forward again. Phillipe began to slide with Isabeau, back toward the water. Suddenly Imperius was beside him, his own hands circling Isabeau’s feet, stopping the slide with his greater weight. “Help her!” he shouted at Phillipe. “Get him out!”

  Phillipe got to his feet, helplessness fi
lling him as he watched the wolf’s panic-stricken struggles. Suddenly he remembered Navarre’s sword still lying behind him. Turning back, he lifted it with both hands and drove it into the ice. Fractures spread from the impact, but the ice held. The wolf sank again. Phillipe caught up the end of the attached rope and leaped into the water.

  The black, icy river closed over his head. He fought his way back to the surface, gasping with the agonizing cold; found himself face to face with the snarling wolf. The wolf lunged at him, its eyes wild with fear, its claws ripping his tunic. Phillipe floundered, hanging on to the rope. Somehow he got a loop of it over the wolf’s head, and then another.

  As the wolf felt the rope tighten around its throat, it lunged at him again in a frenzy. Its fangs ripped his shoulder, its claws raked his chest. Phillipe screamed with pain, and sank. He struggled back to the surface desperately, clinging to the rope like a lifeline, and dragged himself up out of the hole before the drowning wolf could attack him again. Staggering to his feet, he pulled on the rope with all his strength.

  The wolf broke the surface once more, choking and gasping for air. Isabeau seized the ropes around its neck, and together they hauled the animal inch by inch out of the water and onto the ice.

  Phillipe fell to his knees, dazed with pain and shock. The wolf lay on its side, shuddering with cold. It tried once to get its feet under it; collapsed again, its flanks heaving. Isabeau stroked the wolf tenderly, reassuringly, as she uncoiled the rope. She buried her face in the wet, icy fur of its shoulder. The wolf lifted its head, panting, its eyes rolling to stare at her. Its head dropped back and it lay still, exhausted.

  Phillipe lay where he was, as utterly spent as the wolf. Imperius came to his side, pulling him to his feet, helping him toward the shore. Isabeau looked up at them, her face filled with anguish too deep for words. Her eyes burned with resolution as she gazed at Imperius. “We must live, Father,” she whispered finally. “As human beings. Our lives are in your hands, now.”