by Andre Norton
“No.” Only the Falconer's mouth could be seen below the half mask of his helm. It was set and stern. “Do not think that is so, Little Brother. This Gerik was a raider, and by the looks of it, that garth was worth plundering. Also he may have had some old quarrel with the clan master.”
Alon's face cleared a little. “He had with him a man whom Parlan had warned off two moons ago, Yachne telling him that the man was dangerous, even though he had come with a message from Lord Honnor, and that was a true message as we learned later. The stranger had been with my lord for a full twelve moons and served him well. It was after that Parlan felt ill, and Yachne went forth to hunt what would relieve him. But the same man rode with Gerik, I saw his face clearly. He was not of the Dark, the full Dark.”
“But you have said at least another was,” Tirtha persisted. “What manner of man was he?”
Again Alon's face was haunted. “I cannot tell. I do not remember, truly I do not. I only know that there were some who would hunt me in the meadow and that they wanted to . . .” His voice broke, and he dropped the reins, raising his hands to cover his face.
Tirtha was quick to understand. “Put it from your mind. If it is meant that you should remember, then it will come to you at the proper time. Do not seek it now.”
He dropped his hands again. Once more that shadow of an age beyond his stature and his outward appearance crossed his face.
“I shall not seek such inner hiding again.” That came as a promise and a firm one. “But I do not have full memory either. Perhaps, as you say, that shall come to me.”
Tirtha looked to the Falconer. “Gerik seeks us, do you think?”
His head tilted back a little on his shoulders, and he did not answer her. The bird was winging in, settling on its perch. Once more she listened to the twittering exchange between the two of them. Then the man turned from the feathered scout to speak to them both.
“There is a party moving slowly southward. There are six, and one of them is strange.” He hesitated. “My brother cannot explain in what manner save that, though this one wears the appearance of a man, within the body's shell, he is not as we are. Still neither is he Kolder nor one of the dead-controlled who once served Kolder. For that breed is well known to us of the Eyrie that was. This is something else, and it is wrong.”
“Out of Escore?” Ever since their encounter with the thing in the night, Tirtha had been alert for any other evidence that the monsters said to run with evil in the west were patroling into this country. The wildness of this torn land, the chaos into which its people had been plunged, both reasons might well draw evil. The Dark reveled in such circumstances by all the old accounts.
Or—suddenly another thought crossed her mind—what of that which she had encountered, the presence manifesting itself as freezing cold, at Hawkholme. Could that also summon? If so, she must not lead her companions there. Though she did not realize it at that moment, Tirtha was glancing hurriedly from side to side as might a hunted one seeking some path of escape.
“There is something. . . .” Alon's hesitant voice barely broke through her preoccupation with her own alarm, but his next words did. “Lady, you carry a sword and on it there is a symbol. . . .”
She must have centered her gaze on him so suddenly and sharply that she disconcerted him a little, for he faltered, and it was the Falconer who cut in with a question before she could speak.
“What is this about a symbol, Little Brother? The Lady is Head of Hawkholme, the last of her blood. What she carries is the House sword. What do you know of that?”
“You are a Falconer, Swordmaster, and your bird rides with you,” Alon replied. “But the bird which is like unto that on this Lady's sword, that I have also seen—and before our meeting.”
“Where?” Tirtha demanded. On some piece of loot taken at the fall of the hold, tossed about from one thief to another through the years?
“There was another man who came just before the Moon of the Ice Dragon, when the thick snows fell and closed all the mountain ways. He guested with Parlan for ten days, exchanged his mount for another. On his left hand he wore a ring of metal, which was not gold nor silver, but rather it had a reddish look, and it bore a carving like that on your sword hilt. He had the habit of playing with it as he talked, turning it around and around on his finger, and so one noted it.”
“What was his name?” Tirtha demanded.
“He gave it as Ettin and said that he was a blank shield from past service with the Borderers, one who thought of returning to Karsten. He . . .” Alon's puzzled look was back. “I do not think he was of the Old Race, for he was fair of hair and had blue eyes.”
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 Sulcarmen 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.”
“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 Parlan 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 patrolers 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.
“They do not ride as if they believed any watched them. Men do not go openly through such a land as this unless they have reason to think themselves beyond pursuit.”
“Or else,” she commented dryly, “they set themselves as bait to draw those they wish to take.”
“Yes, there is that. But what Wind Warrior can do, he will, and in this open country he can see if they are joined or if they have any contact with others. You are right concerning the danger of the wood ahead. There even his sight cannot serve us, so we shall have to go with full caution. But for now, let us try for those trees and there take cover until morning. Or perhaps even wait out the coming day and move on at night.”
Night was when the Dark held its greatest power, and Tirtha did not forget that, with those ahead, there rode a servant of evil. On the other hand, perhaps the others believed that any such travelers as this party of hers would not dare a journey in darkness. There were so many different things to think on. Suddenly she was tired, as worn as if she had tramped for days along an endless highway. She wanted rest, freedom from this burden, this geas, which had been thrust upon her and which she must continue to bear because of the blood that had been hers from birth.
11
THEY took cover in a fringe of trees, traveling slowly, while the falcon, in short flights, kept an eye on the party ahead. Those others continued to move in the open as if they had nothing to fear and a definite goal awaiting them.
It was the falcon, also, that brought from two of its ventures small hares, lean at this season, but still food, though they must eat the flesh raw, chewing at strips shaved from the carcasses. Tirtha, long since having learned that one could not be dainty during hard travel, accepted thankfully, even though her stomach was queasy.
They camped that night where the black-veined ledge descended into the earth. Ahead they could sight the forest, dark and threatening to the east, displaying even at this distance the thick weaving of its outer wall, a warning threat.
The party ahead did not attempt an entrance into the forest, though they had changed course to camp on land edging it. Nor did they hide their camp, for the wink of their fire was bright.
Making a last ascent into the dusk-curtained sky, the falcon circled toward it. When the bird returned, it eagerly reported to the man. He listened, though he himself was now only a blot of darkness Tirtha was hardly able to distinguish.
“One of their party is gone,” he reported, when the bird was done. “Wind Warrior believes he has entered the wood. That holds danger. Perhaps he goes to treat with what dwells there for a safe passage.”
Something which they could not do, Tirtha thought bitterly. Or else the rider had been sent to set up the ambush that she suspicioned might await them. Her shoulders drooped. There was no question that she must go on, but why must she take these two with her, to add to her trials?
It was Alon who broke the silence, following upon the Falconer's translation of the report.
“You said”—he spoke to Tirtha—“that there were the remains of a road leading through the wood to your Hawkholme land. Then once men must have ridden it safely. Did not the Old Race have their own guards, not all of them men?”
“Guards—if those ever existed—” she answered out of a dull sense that she faced the impossible and could not hope for better, “who were of no service on the Day of the Horning. Hawkholme fell then, and that was many years ago. Any guards of my clan are dead or long since swept away.”
To her surprise the Falconer said slowly, “There is this—only the mountains’ fall brought down the Eyrie. For we in turn had safeguards that were greater than men with sword and dart. Still . . .” His outline moved; she thought that he was putting out his arm, and she heard a small rustle of sound. Perhaps Wind Warrior was settling on his favorite perch, that metal claw. “Some of what we had remains there. Otherwise the Brother-in-Feath
ers would not have come to me. His kin remembered across the years. Do not dismiss too quickly what our little brother suggests. There might yet be something that will answer to your blood even as Wind Warrior came to me.”
She gave a bitter bark of laughter. “There is nothing to aid and everything to stand against me. I say me—for I will not have the two of you on my conscience, knowing that I may lead you into what may be worse than any death by steel. Alon has already tasted of what this Gerik can turn against one. None of us has any knowledge of shield-building by ritual or appeal to Power. That forest is bad. What waits beyond is worse.”
Unseen, her fingers moved in age-old signs, warding off evil fate. Some signs she had always known, some she had learned with difficulty, but these gestures carried with them no authority at all. If she were like Yachne, perhaps, Tirtha could stand against the Dark; but she was not a Wise Woman, certainly no Witch.
“To think of defeat is to summon it.” Out of the dark Alon's voice was that of a man's, save for its higher pitch. “You would not have been called unless there was a chance.”
“What if,” she retorted between her teeth, “I was brought hither to satisfy some purpose of the Dark—a sacrifice? How can I swear that this is not so? There were forces in Karsten that always hated and feared my kind. In the past some of them linked with Kolder. Perhaps now they strike bargains with another power.”
Her depression was like a thick cloud. She had never so mistrusted the future. Before, the need for the quest had upborne her through much trouble, nor had she been visited by such feelings of despair and helplessness.
Fingers caught at her moving hands, wrapped about them tightly, holding with a fierce grip.
“Swordmaster”—Alon's voice sounded as sharply as one summoning another to battle—“your sword! There is a shadow striving to engulf her.”
Tirtha struggled to free her hands from the boy's hold. He—they must go, leave her now! There welled up inside her such a wave of darkness as she had never known. This was not the icy evil that had struck at her during that farseeing. Rather it appeared to be a part of herself, born out of her own fears and doubts, out of every disappointment, hardship, and past danger she had fought. It welled up, filled her, was sour in her mouth, invaded and routed coherent thought. She wanted nothing but to be free of it—of this other self—to find peace, peace forever and ever, all struggle gone.