She remembered a slender, fair-haired boy who had grown so fast, who had ridden with a small border company of patrollers 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 look 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-Feathers 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.