“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 patrolling into this country. The wild-ness 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 Parian 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 Sulcar-men 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.”
That he would accept so readily her explanation of what brought her south was a relief.
“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 Parian 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.”