“I said”—he was quick to correct her—“that that was what was told me. The truth is that Yachne brought me to Parian’s clan and told such a tale. So I was accepted, for the man she named as my father was blood-brother by sword oath to Parian—and it was true he was dead, his lady having vanished also after the battle, and was thought to be slain during the retreat that followed. That was Yachne’s story, but”—he drew a deep, long breath—“can one believe it? There are the Gates. Those I have heard of—even of Tregarth’s coming—and of that which the Kolders used when they entered this world and strove to make it theirs. Could it be that I am also such an outlander?”
His eyes were large, wide open, and there was that same eagerness in his face which he had shown the night before when she had asked of them their aid in farseeing.
“You have the look of the Old Race outwardly,” Tirtha observed. “Yet you have also power—and the measurement of how much is something I cannot make. I have only a scrap of the talent. I can heal a little; I can farsee when entranced; and I can dream. I am not your Yachne. Also perhaps I am now one who is walking straight into such danger as cannot be reckoned.”
“Still you must go to the Hawkholme,” he said slowly, and she did not need the ability to read minds to guess that he longed to ask her the reason for this journey.
Odder still was the feeling within her that, for the first time, she wished to share her secret. As if this small boy, with his oddly mature speech and apparent understanding, had a full right to know what had driven her for so long. However, there was no time for such a sharing, even if she had been willing to break the cautious silence of years, for the Falconer returned at a pace quick enough to set the bottles he carried swinging from his claw, his hand on the butt of his dart gun.
“We ride.” He swung past them to where the ponies and the Torgian were picketed, making it plain that he meant a hasty departure. Tirtha and Alon asked no questions, rather hastened to saddle their mounts. When the Falconer took the lead, he swung north, leaving the stream, holding his pony to a trot that was the best pace for such rough country.
Tirtha pulled level with him. “What have you seen?”
“We may have escaped notice.” He had resumed his helm and now the falcon took wing, ascending into the sky in ever widening circles. “But there were fresh tracks on the other side of the stream.”
She thought furiously. What she had done the night before, drawing the other two into it also? If there were any hereabouts with the faintest trace of talent, they would have been alerted as quickly as if she had purposefully marked a plain back trail or set a signal fire. Perhaps her action had been foolhardy, wildly reckless.
“Outlaws?” she asked. Most drifting through this country would certainly be men from the plains, not those generally receptive to whispers of the Power. Their passing would be by chance only.
He shrugged. “What can one read from tracks in the mud? There were two shod horses of a larger breed—the rest were ponies. A party of six I would say. They headed south and east.”
South and east—that was the direction they themselves must take. Tirtha had sensed in her trance journey that what she sought was not too far distant. Perhaps that ridge with its black veining might be only a day’s journey on. However, if they had to detour, it would add to the leagues of travel while their supplies were very low, and they might not have time to hunt or garner any fresh spring plants.
“How long since, do you believe?” she asked.
“Since sunrise.”
His curt answer offered a little relief. Dared she believe that what she had wrought last night had nothing to do with this near meeting? The evidence could point to another camp not too far away—or maybe pursuit! This Gerik—what motive could drive him to follow them? Tirtha could think of one lure—Alon. If the outlaw had guessed that one of the Old Race with unusual powers had slipped through his fingers at the massacre—would that be prod enough to set him following? Gerik—who was he? Was he an outlaw? Or shield man of some ambitious noble now raiding and fighting over the remnants of Karsten? She waved to Alon, bringing him forward until the three of them rode abreast.
“Who is Gerik? Does some other stand behind him?” She shot the questions quickly, saw the Falconer turn his head as if he understood the line her thoughts had taken.
“He is a raider,” Alon answered slowly, “who has come only in the past year into this country. His men—they are…” The boy’s face was pale, he moistened his lips with tongue tip. Tirtha knew well that she was forcing him back to memories that he had been setting firmly behind him. Still they must know all they could.
“His men…” Alon straightened a little in the large saddle. One of his hands rested against the Torgian’s neck as if he drew strength and courage from contact with the animal. “They are…” He turned his head farther to look directly at Tirtha and the Falconer. “I know it now.” There was a quick lift in his voice. “I thought that they were only—what Parian called the scum—those blank shields no lord would allow to ride under his banner, murderers and worse as some of them were. Only now I understand—there was a real Dark One among them!”
Tirtha’s hold on the reins tightened, and her mare near came to a halt. The Falconer’s hand, which had hovered near his dart gun ever since they had ridden forth, closed upon its butt.
“And Gerik—he was the one?” Somehow Tirtha kept her voice steady.
Alon shook his head. “I am not sure. Only that he is evil, but… No, I do not think that he is anything but a man, a true man, though there was in him…” His puzzlement was becoming distress. “When they hunted me, I was too afraid. Now that I am here and know more, I realize that I feared not death alone—though that was a part of it—but something beyond, which was worse.”
“Could they have learned”—the Falconer’s mind followed the same path Tirtha’s had chanced upon—“that you held control over Power?”
“I do not know, but then I did not know it myself. It was the fear of them that, I think, broke some barrier in me.”
“There were times in the past when barriers against power could be and were induced in children.” Again Tirtha recalled her researching at Lormt, which had sometimes wandered into side lanes away from the main search she had gone there to make. “Perhaps it was so with you, Alon.”
His distress was open to read. “Then could it have been me Gerik sought? Did I then bring the death—the…”
“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 Parian 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 Parian 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.