Master of Hawks

by Linda E. Bushyager

  “But it was too soon for me, too soon after Garth’s

  death. I was attracted to Derek, but Garth’s loss was an ache inside me—at times it still is.”

  She looked down at Hawk, and her eyes, which still glittered with tears, blazed with an anger born of hurt. “When I said ‘no’ to Derek he turned on me, without even giving me a chance to explain; he said vile things—and what was worse was that suddenly I could sense his hatred, his fear of me.

  “It was as if some part of his mind realized that he was on the verge of really liking me, perhaps even having deep feelings, and it reacted to protect itself from pain by finding some rationale, however crazy, to turn those positive feelings into hatred. I was a symbol of those other women that had hurt him, I guess, and so he had to hate me.

  “Perhaps if I had known what drove him I would have acted differently. Maybe I could have helped him somehow.” She sighed. “But I ran from his hatred and I kept going. I left the castle that night and went back to Wessex.

  “And then a month or two later Taral started advancing into York, S’Wessex’s men moved to York, and we found ourselves eventually stationed at Threeforks under Derek’s command.” She smiled bitterly at the irony.

  “He didn’t bother me though; he didn’t even talk to me unless he had to, and I didn’t talk to him. Until today … “

  Hawk put his arm around her again and patted her shoulder comfortingly. “We’ll be leaving here tomorrow, Ro, and I’m sure he won’t bother you. I won’t let him.”

  “You’re a good friend.” She smiled weakly at him, not seeing how the word ‘friend’ cut him. “You’re right, tomorrow we’ll be on our way to Kellerton … “

  Abruptly she seemed to bring herself under control, and after a few more sniffles she stood up and, taking his hand, pulled Hawk up as well.

  “Let’s get some rest if we can,” she said. “We’ll need all our wits about us in the next few days.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Hawk asked, looking at the forced calm of her face with concern.

  “I won’t let him upset me, he’s not worth it,” she answered. Then she frowned. “But I don’t want him see that I’ve been crying … “

  “Come on with me, there’s a pond and you can wash your face,” Hawk said, leading her back through the garden.

  “Thank you.” Her eyes were the warm color of trees in sunlight. “And thanks for listening to me, for being here.”

  “Hey, what are friends for?” The words sounded casual, but they burned in his throat.

  He laughed shallowly, trying to bolster her spirits. “Wait until you see the goldfish in this pond, they are as big as trout. Which reminds me, that food S’York ordered should be here by now.”

  His stomach felt full of rocks, but he gamely continued for her sake. “I could eat a dozen of them, couldn’t you?”

  “A dozen trout or a dozen goldfish?” she joked without humor, following his lead.

  And then suddenly they both laughed, and the laughter was genuine, despite the pain.

  14

  The next morning was clear and crisp and crowded with the fragrance of early spring blossoms, the sight of greening trees, and the sound of countless birds winging north.

  Hawk missed the company of his eagles, but he resigned himself to their absence. He had left them, his perch-horned saddle, and even his weapons behind—everything that might identify him as someone other than a farmer on a pilgrimage to the N’Omb shrine at Kellerton seeking N’Omb’s blessing on his spring planting; everything, that is, except the one thing he could not leave behind—his mother’s jade pin, which still hung on a chain around his neck, concealed beneath his gray shirt. It was the only link he had with his unknown past; he had always carried it, and he would always keep it with him, no matter the danger.

  Ro also carried one object with her that was not in character with her disguise as a N’Omb pilgrim—but her reasons were practical rather than personal. Common sense as well as sixth sense had insisted that she carry a knife, even though pilgrims were forbidden to carry personal possessions, in order to maintain their vows of piety and anonymity. It lay hidden inside her boot—a cold, comforting pressure against her calf.

  They dared not take anything else out of character, not even weapons concealed inside their offering bags, for they might meet invading Empire troops at any time. With the siege of York about to start, pilgrims were likely to be inspected, perhaps even cursorily searched.

  Knowing that the Keller Road was filled with S’Stratford’s advancing troops, they traveled an indirect route over cow paths and back lanes. This led them through the farmlands west of Castle York.

  Word of the Empire’s invasion of central York had spread like fire in a drought. Everywhere farmers labored frantically to bury stores of grain and salted meat and to hide valued possessions, because they knew that if the Empire won, which seemed all too likely, their farms would be heavily taxed to supply its army.

  The people seemed to realize the futility of flight, for there was really no refuge anywhere in the Eastern Kingdoms. However, there was some movement of young men and boys into the mountains and badlands to the southwest as they sought to avoid possible conscription into the Empire’s army.

  Hawk and Ro traveled quickly, seeking to reach Kellerton on the morning of the third day, for that was a holy day—the Feast of Saint Steffan. They needed the cover of large numbers of pilgrims, and in these troubled times they could count on crowds only during high holy days. Invasion of York or not, the faithful would turn out to worship Saint Steffan at the Shrine of the Three Miracles, since he was one of the most revered N’Omb saints, and he had been involved in two of the three miracles that had given the shrine its name.

  Twice they were stopped by Empire patrols and questioned. The second time their saddlebags and offerings were inspected, an event that made Hawk very thankful they’d heeded Coleman S’Wessex’s advice and taken grain rather than swords for this trip. He wished that Feder had not been so adamant that they recover the plaque without help—he felt that Coleman’s experience and advice would be useful, perhaps crucial. Instead he had to rely on himself and his plan, and on Ro’s strange abilities.

  As they rode, Hawk watched her and tried to sort out his confusion of feelings toward her. He was attracted to her, yes, but there was more to it than that. He admired her. In fact, the more he saw of her, the more impressed he became. It was not just her courage or her knowledge—it was her self-assurance, perhaps because that was the one quality he felt lacking in himself.

  He remembered how calm she had been when they had been stopped by the Empire patrols. She had smiled and even joked with the soldiers, while he’d barely managed to mutter “May the blessings of N’Omb be with you” to them while thinking of the sword he didn’t have. Her charm had distracted the soldiers from seeing his nervousness.

  Yet of late he had felt more confidence in himself. Even if he had been thrust involuntarily into the center of the action, he seemed to be up to the challenge. And to his surprise he was enjoying the adventure.

  Late on the second day they camped in a patch of woods just east of the city, and on the following dawn they rode down to Kellerton.

  “We’ll enter by the east gate,” said Hawk as the path dipped, revealing the walled town and the dark blue lake beyond it. “There will be less security than at the main gate.”

  “Will we get there before the doors of the shrine open for the day?” asked Ro.

  “No problem.”

  While they approached the city, Hawk probed the minds of the pigeons and starlings nested on the ledges and nooks around the ancient buildings. He flew above the city gates and noted the skeleton regiment of soldiers holding the town. He sat overlooking the square and watched the gray-garbed pilgrims gather. He drifted over the market stalls at the edges of the plaza and smelled the fresh-baked bread, the cheese, and the herbs. He fluttered to the pavement and picked at a discarded crust while s
tudying the Shrine of the Three Miracles.

  He remembered visiting the shrine once when he was younger, seeking information about his mother and his identity, since the party of pilgrims she’d been with had been found nearby. But the priests had not been able to tell him anything about the group. Evidently they’d been killed by highwaymen before they ever reached Kellerton.

  Hawk called to the birds scattered around the town and urged them into the square until they covered the sides and roof of the cathedral with a cloak of dark feathers.

  He felt a sudden uneasiness as he noticed the closeness of the cathedral to the pavilion containing the N’Omb relics. His plan might cause some birds to be injured.

  Realizing this, Hawk suddenly wondered if he were really any different from the enemy bird-path. He was ready to steal a relic, which was a gross sacrilege against the god N’Omb, and he might maim or kill some birds in the process.

  Yet he had to believe that the actions were justified if they could bring victory and peace.

  Determinedly he pushed his doubts and misgivings from his mind and concentrated on the task ahead. They had almost reached Kellerton.

  The breach in the wall that was the gate glared at them like an eye and grew until it became a gaping mouth around them. Two soldiers stood just inside, holding spears that gleamed like teeth in the darkness.

  “Halt,” commanded one. “Where are you from and what is your business in the city?”

  Hawk wet dry lips and tried to mimic the beatific smile expected of a N’Omb pilgrim. To his surprise, the words he had rehearsed mentally slipped out without flaw or strained inflection. “We’re from Miller’s Lane,” he said, naming one of the back roads just east of Kellerton. “We’re seeking Saint Steffan’s blessings for our crop.”

  “It’s such a beautiful day for Saint Steffan’s festival, isn’t it?” added Ro, smiling down at the two men. At the sight of the pretty girl, they could not help but smile back and nod.

  “I hope to see you at the services,” she continued. “Oh, sure,” one of the men stammered.

  The other avoided her glance and said, “You can go on through now.”

  While Hawk rode forward, Ro lagged behind for a moment and smiled again at the soldiers. “Thank you,” she murmured sweetly, casting a veiled glance at the gate’s fortifications and the guardhouse in the wall. Then she urged her horse after Hawk.

  When they turned left onto a main street, Hawk noticed that the shoppers seemed less boisterous than he remembered from other festival days, but there were almost as many as usual. Colored streamers hung between rooftops, painted banners bearing images of Saint Steffan dangled from windows, and shopkeepers leaned against doorways urging milling townspeople and pilgrims inside.

  The smell of fresh-baked cookies shaped to resemble Saint Steffan’s cap lingered in the air and pressed against nostrils and lips so invitingly that many stopped to buy them from strolling vendors.

  Hawk headed into an alley in the center of the town. It curved back toward the way they had come and would serve as an exit in the event that they needed to leave quickly.

  As they tied their horses to a post just inside the passage, Ro asked, “How soon before the shrine opens?”

  “About half an hour. The priests should be conducting some sort of opening ceremonies about now.” Hawk adjusted the hood of his cloak and slung one of the offering bags over his shoulders. As he grabbed the second he spoke softly: “The birds are in position.”

  She nodded. “Then we’re all set?”

  He gave her a nervous half-smile. “Let’s go.”

  Reaching down to the top of her boot, Ro unobtrusively pulled out a button she had hidden there and slipped it into her pocket. Then she followed Hawk into the flow of pilgrims heading toward the square.

  A white-robed priest stood in front of the main doors into the cathedral. While he announced the day’s events and extolled Saint Steffan’s virtues, other priests walked through the crowd giving blessings. Two stood in front of the kiosk in the center of the square guarding the relics lying inside.

  Hawk and Ro wandered by the stands selling food and mementos and then drifted over to the small pavilion. Most of the bits of metal and glass displayed inside looked like so much junk, but to the followers of N’Omb they were priceless signs of the god himself.

  Suddenly Ro’s fingers dug sharply into Hawk’s arm. He followed her gaze to a flat plate among the twisted scraps. According to the label it was a sign from an ancient dwelling place of N’Omb, but to Hawk it was the Sylvan plaque, lying exactly in the position the Sylvan chief, Feder, had described.

  It seemed nothing more than a rectangular piece of copper that had turned dark green with age. The inscription was in an ancient language, illegible and undecipherable. It hardly seemed something valuable, or something worth risking his or Ro’s life to try to obtain. But if it would cement the alliance between York and the Sylvan, they had no choice except to steal it or to die in the attempt.

  Hawk glanced at the bronze clock on the city hall tower across the square. It was almost nine o’clock, time for the main doors to open.

  “I must give the offerings now,” he told Ro.

  Her face remained as calm and serene as those of the pilgrims around them as she watched him walk toward the offering platform at the back of the cathedral, about fifty yards from the main doors, but her skin tingled with a sudden foreboding of his danger that came too late and remained too vague to do Hawk any good, even if she could tell him about it. She had no choice except to continue with her part of the mission, for she sensed that it would succeed.

  Then the clock began to chime, and the crowd turned to watch it. Small doors at the base of its face opened, revealing mechanical figures of famous saints. Moving hands and legs in time to the chimes, they paraded in a circle until the last bell rang, then they reentered the clock.

  As the pilgrims turned back toward the shrine and began to crowd against its main doors in anticipation that they would open, Hawk reached the edge of the offering platform and handed the bags of grain to one of the novices. With mingled excitement and abhorrence, he contacted the gathered birds, and then, as the main doors opened, he sent them diving from the rooftops and ledges into the crowd massed at the cathedral’s entrance.

  There was instant pandemonium. Startled pilgrims ran or tried to dodge; some tried to squeeze into the shrine, but the sudden press of the crowd plugged the door. Priests shouted, women screamed, and birds shrieked.

  Hawk controlled the birds as carefully as he could to prevent injuries to them and to the pilgrims. But it was difficult to direct so many at once in the tight space.

  A pigeon landed on a woman’s head, and she flailed about, knocking down others in the crowd; one of the priests began to shout a hurried spell and point his finger at some of the birds, which fell one by one onto the frightened throng; at the same time a large group of starlings careened into a market stall, knocking part of it over, while other maddened birds dashed themselves against the doorway of the shrine.

  Ro took advantage of that first moment of confusion. While all eyes stared at the chaos near the cathedral doors, she stepped up into the kiosk. The blue-gold force field did not flicker, the protective runes engraved upon the kiosk did not flame, the alarms did not sound.

  She slipped the Sylvan plaque into the folds of her robe and left in its place a silver button bearing the Imperial insignia. It had come from an Empire soldier’s uniform. The plaque’s absence might not be noticed for days or weeks, but when it was, suspicion would fall on the Empire rather than on York or the Sylvan.

  Then she stepped down and melted into the crowd. No one had noticed her.

  As soon as Hawk saw Ro leave the kiosk, he began to edge his way around the side of the square toward the city hall. Meanwhile he sent the birds into another dive.

  “I wish we didn’t have to attend this damn ceremony for Saint Steffan,” said Wagner Prenis to another of Jaxton Sinclair’s lieu
tenants as they hurried down the warped stairs of the city hall.

  Jaxton, who waited for them on the first-floor landing, heard the remark and said sharply, “You may not believe in N’Omb, but these people do. We have to show them that although we’ve occupied their town, we’ll respect their beliefs and property. Kellerton is now part of the Taral Empire, and as its acting mayor I have a duty to pay my respects to N’Omb. Though I don’t like it any better than you do, we’re going to sit through that service and look as though we like it.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Prenis, looking at his boots. He knew his superior well enough to make no further objections.

  As they walked down the long hallway toward the front door, the guard at the end suddenly gave a startled cry and dashed outside.

  “What the … ?” exclaimed Jaxton.

  Closely followed by his aides, he ran to the door and outside into the square.

  The plaza was a turmoil of writhing gray and white as twisting pilgrims and priests dodged and ran, trying to evade black feathered darts that clawed and raked and bit. Yet the screams and cries were far out of proportion to actual injuries.

  While a gray cloud of pigeons whirled down from the spires of the shrine, Jaxton’s thoughts automatically thrust out into the birds. Touching their minds, he suddenly found himself in deadly combat with the hawk-telepath he had met before. Only this time the man’s mind was no wisp of shielded thought darting out of range but was instead solid, near, and dangerous.

  Jaxton’s shield shuddered and held under a barrage of lightning-like thrusts. He counterattacked, but the mental pounding continued so fiercely that Jaxton realized that the hawk-telepath was far more powerful than he had thought.

  While the two minds grappled, the birds spun and careened in an uncontrolled frenzy, for they were still linked to the men. They dived against the buildings and flew blindly onto the ground.

  Jaxton wondered why the enemy telepath had disrupted the Saint Steffan festival. Was this merely a diversion while Derek S’Mayler attacked Kellerton? Yet there had been no alarm of an attack or any sighting of York troops. Moreover, it seemed unlikely that York would take the chance of offending the N’Omb priests. Or was this a plot of some kind? An attempt to discredit the Empire? Some of the townspeople knew that he was a bird-path. Did York intend to make it look as though he had done this?