Over the mountains from Escore—if the servants of the Dark had thus wandered, perhaps other blood had come also. It could be that Alon had less human blood in him than appearances warranted. If that were true, his self-caused retreat, even from sight, could well be a natural thing.
By evening they found a good camping place. There was a moss—and-turf-covered ledge projecting from a rise of ground, sided in part by an indentation that was close to a cave. Tirtha, seeing on the down side a covey of hares, loosed three arrows in close order and descended to pick up the bodies, while Alon, for the first time since he had mounted Torgian, displayed fatigue, sitting on one of the saddles the Falconer had stripped from their beasts, hunching his shoulders against the rising evening wind. His scanty clothing certainly gave him little protection against it.
They pulled stones together and lighted a fire at the back of the half cave, broiling the joints of meat over it, to avidly eat dripping bits to which Tirtha added some of her powdered herbs. Comfortable warmth radiated from the back wall of stone. The Falconer rummaged in his saddle bags and brought out a pair of under-trousers which were far too large until they were tied around Alon’s waist with a doubled cord, the legs turned up and laced tight. There were no boots to pull over them, but at least they kept the saddle pad from chafing the boy’s inner thighs, which were already red. Tirtha covered the marks with salve before he drew on the improvised leggings.
He sat by the fire eating hungrily, wiping the grease from his fingers with a tuft of grass before he turned to the Falconer.
“Lord Nirel…”
“I am no lord, Little Brother,” countered the other. “We do not use the lowland titles, we of the Eyrie.” Then he paused, for he must be remembering, Tirtha knew with a flash of insight, that the Eyrie and its brotherhood had long since vanished.
“I think then,” said Alon, with his head a little on one side, “that I shall call you Swordmaster Nirel, for you are surely one who is that. But you wear more than one sword at your belt…” He pointed to the strange weapon. “And I have never seen the like of that one. Though Master Parian had old comrades come now and then to visit with him, and many of them carried weapons which they cherished and in which they had great pride. What is that?”
The Falconer drew the dagger-sword. Now the gem in the pommel was darkly opaque—even the firelight could raise no gleams from its inner part. It might have been as dead as any lump of metal.
“I do not know, in truth, Little Brother. It is a gift from Wind Warrior, and it holds within it that which I do not understand.” He extended it closer into the firelight so that the flame lit the inlays on its blade. “I think that it is not only very old, but that it is a thing of Power, perhaps even like the Axe of Volt.”
It was apparent that Alon had never heard of that fabulous weapon. But now he held out a finger not to touch, but to sketch in the air just a little above, the symbols on the blade as he passed each one in a sweep from hilt to point.
“This picture”—he paused above one near the end of that line—“is like unto a thing which Yachne wore beneath her robe on a chain about her neck. It was a secret thing, I think. I only saw it the once, and she quickly hid it again. Did this come from overmountain, or is it falcon power?”
“The Falconers do not deal with any power,” came a somewhat repressive answer. “Nor is this out of Estcarp, as far as I know. It must have been borne by one of Estcarp’s enemies, for we found it where a mountain fall had trapped and killed those who were the invaders. Though why one of Karsten would have carried a thing they would have deemed cursed—that is also strange and hard to believe.”
“Yes, it must be very old.” Alon swept his hand up the length of the blade, this time toward the hilt, as if he could, by the very gesture, read something of what it was and for what purpose it must serve its possessor.
“But it is not for the letting of blood—none has ever stained it.”
He spoke with an authority that made them both stare. Then he gave a little self-conscious laugh. “If Yachne were here, I would have a clout across the mouth for speaking so. She did not like me to say what I knew, even when I knew it. But it is true. There is a feel to a thing that has killed; it clings to aught which has let blood. I do not sense it here. Yet in its way this is a weapon.”
“Rather,” Tirtha interrupted, “I would call it a key of sorts. For it was through this the Falconer brought you—or he and his falcon—brought you back to this world. It is a power thing, and it answers to them, whether they claim the talent or not.”
Alon blinked. “In time it may do even more. I should have Yachne’s learning, then perhaps I could take it in my hands and see. It is strange, but inside me now I feel very different, as if there is something before me that is all new, standing ready for me to discover it. I… I am no longer Alon, the always-babe, but another—one I do not yet know, and yet whom I must speedily learn.”
9
For three days they drifted westward. There were no trails in the foothills, though once or twice they chanced upon indications that they did not travel through a deserted country. There were signs of old campfires, unhidden, and hoof prints of horses stitched soft earth. Still the falcon, scouting aloft, reported only native animals.
The last of the supplies they had brought over-mountain were gone. Tirtha’s bow kept them in meat. There must have been little hunting hereabouts for years, since the pronghorns and the hares were easy to bring down. Alon also possessed knowledge of the wild. He triumphantly dug up fat roots which, when roasted in the fire, broke apart to be tasty and filling.
More and more the older two came to accept Alon as an equal in spite of his childish appearance. Tirtha’s careful questioning produced more of his relationship with Yachne—plainly a Wise Woman of such talent as would have placed her high in Estcarp.
“She was”—Alon frowned slightly as he tended the fire on their third night of encampment—“not of the kin Parian claimed, nor was she, I am sure, even of the blood they knew. She had been many years with his household, for she came with his mother when she was a girl first handfasted to his father. She was old, yet always she looked the same without change. And it was she who went alone to find me when I was left kinless, bringing me back to the household. Also”—his eyes darkened oddly, as if to hide part of his thoughts—“she was not there when Gerik came. She had gone seeking a rare herb which she thought would draw Parian out of his fever, or so she said. Had she been within the walls I do not think Gerik could have entered. Yachne”—he nodded, as if to underline the importance of what he said—“could read the Dark Ones. Twice she told Parian to send away men who came to him seeking shelter, and one of them was a long-time comrade he would have trusted.”
“And this garth master always listened to her advice?” the Falconer asked.
Alon nodded once more. “Always. I think he was even a little afraid of her. Not that she would do him or his any harm, but because she knew things that he did not understand. Men always seem to fear what they cannot find a direct reason for.” Again it was as if someone far older sat there, licking grease from his fingers, wearing the outward appearance of a child who must be protected from the rigors of the world. If Tirtha closed her eyes and listened only to his speech, she built up in her mind a far different Alon, always to be slightly startled when she looked directly at the boy again.
“She was—is a Wise Woman,” Tirtha said now.