Why indeed? She considered that. In her pride she had believed herself to be the only one of the kin so summoned. There might well have been others; even a half-blood would answer if a geas call came strong enough. It might be that someone, or something, had indeed summoned any who had enough of Hawk blood to answer, and that these had all been burdened by the same command. If so, the one this Gerik amused himself with now was kin, and his blood debt would fall on her.
“Yes,” she said softly. “Though it was my belief that I was the last of the true blood—the full blood—yet it could be so.”
“What do you know of that pile over there?” A jerk of his head indicated the ruined holding.
“I have seen part of it in dreams.” The time had come when she must be utterly frank with him. “The great hall and a secret place beyond it. Therein what I seek is hidden or was hidden. I do not know”—her frankness swept her on as days earlier she would never have believed possible—“what I so seek, only that it must be found. That is the geas laid upon me.”
“Little enough.” His tone was flat. “You have no other knowledge—none of its doors or how it might be entered?”
She was forced to shake her head, resenting that she must seem so stupid in his eyes. Why had her dreams not given her more? To her this ignorance seemed so utterly defeating that she knew again some of the soul-darkness that had struck her on the way.
“There is that which you found with the dead.”
Tirtha started, her hand went quickly to her belt pouch. She had forgotten that bit of over-written skin. Now she pulled it out with desperate eagerness, smoothing the scrap upon the nearest flat surface.
Together they bent over it, but still the lines there made no sense. If it possessed a secret, Tirtha could not connect it with the ruined hold. There was no indication of a wall or passage, anything that looked to be a guide.
“Ritual perhaps,” she said at last. Nor did he deny her identification.
“Yet it had a meaning for the dead.”
“Which perhaps died with him.” She rerolled the page, set it once more within its container. No, there was no easy way for them. This venture depended upon their wits and strength alone. She slipped the container back into her belt pouch.
“Wind Warrior sees with other eyes,” The Falconer spoke musingly. “He is of the old stock, one keenwitted beyond the others remaining of his lost folk, or he would not have come to me. However, he was never battle-trained, and he cannot supply us now with such information as would point out any weaknesses in what defenses they may have.”
“Since he has returned,” Tirtha said, “why do you not rest, leaving the watch to me? You cannot take all sentry duty upon yourself.”
He did not refuse. Though she knew well that his sort made no complaint, his body was human, and she could guess that he needed sleep—even desired it—that he might be better prepared for what lay ahead. When he had settled himself, discarding his helm and drawing his worn cloak about him, Tirtha moved into a position where she could stare directly at Hawkholme, wishing that she dared use a trance to reconnoiter, though she realized the fateful folly of that.
The sun was warm. She tugged a little at the fastenings of her jerkin. A breeze lingered over the river, and the constant murmur of the water could be lulling. Tirtha sat up the straighter, strove to plan. The curling of the flood about the remains of the bridge piers attracted her attention from time to time. Where the stones had fallen from the broken span, there were pile-ups of captured drift. Not long ago the water level must have been higher, fed by spring storms wild and strong enough to tear small trees, as well as brush, from collapsing banks, sweeping such along. There remained enough force to tug loose pieces of that wreckage which caught on the broken piers, sending them tumbling on. In fact, Tirtha began to watch the rush of water with more care. The current was apparently still to be reckoned with.
The river curved below the bridge, where rocks broke the surface, standing foam ringed, with more drift jammed among them. Beyond that the water ran between banks where bushes were still half buried in its swollen abundance. Well within the range of her sight was the artificial cut made to feed water into the moat.
Surely, with such a force of running water at hand, there must have been drains from the fortress into that cutoff. And even as Tirtha studied the rippling of the current, she could see some of the debris caught among the rocks being pulled loose from time to time, to be whirled or bobbing and tossing in the water. This could just be their way—
By the time dusk arrived and she had awakened the Falconer, allowing Alon to sleep on, she had a plan, a shaky one and risky enough, but was not their whole venture risky? He listened to her suggestion, and half to her surprise and feeding her pride, he agreed.
“To enter below the rocks”—he studied the scene carefully as she had been doing all afternoon—“yes, it is possible. Also it would appear the only way one might gain that place without being sighted. Masked by drift, it is possible.”
“You can swim?” She knew that while she was no mistress of water ways, she could handle herself well enough, using floating branches as a screen to make the attempt.
“We have served as marines on the Sulcar ships,” he replied. “None go to sea with those warriors unless they are able to take care of themselves mid wind and wave. The mounts we must leave behind. To attempt to tow them through the water, no.”
“Falgon will go…” Alon’s voice startled them both.
They turned as one to look at the boy.
“Falgon?” questioned Tirtha.
“Him whom you call the Torgian—he has made bond with me,” Alon returned simply. “And if he goes, then so will the ponies, for he is strong, and they will follow where he leads.”
Tirtha was not surprised. The Torgians were noted for choosing masters whom they served until death. “It might not work,” she cautioned. “We seek a way into the hold, perhaps through a drain, some small passageway, which a horse could not follow.”
“Yes,” Alon returned. “But he will wait nearby, the ponies with him. We shall need them later.”
“And you shall wait with them.” Tirtha was inspired. She had no wish to take Alon into what might well be a trap. It was hard enough to bear the burden of leading the Falconer into battle. This boy-child—no, let him remain with the horses and relieve her mind that much.
“No, you shall need me.” He spoke with authority, an odd compelling authority, which stifled any protest she might have raised.
So, when at dusk they made their way down past the rocky stretch of river, Alon, as well as the three mounts, were of the company. They squatted by the water’s edge, working as quickly as they could in the dark, fashioning narrow rafts of drift on which they piled most of their gear, including their clothing. The falcon had taken off, heading toward the main tower of the waiting ruin, as they stepped into water cold enough to wring gasps from them all. Then, having waded out a few steps, they abandoned themselves to the steady pull of the current, their shoulders supported by the rafts, kicking their feet to steer them straight.
Thus they reached the entrance to the moat. Here a fall of stone had nearly dammed the entrance, but they scrambled over it. On the other side the Falconer tested the depth where the water washed directly against the walls and found it no more than knee-deep, though stagnant and evil-smelling, so they redressed hurriedly. Alon stood and set his hands on either side of the Torgian’s head. Then he released the animal, which turned to climb the nearest bank, the ponies following. The beasts were gone before Tirtha could send Alon with them. Luckily it, was a dark night, with the beginning of rain, and the animals, with near-human intelligence, picked as silent a way as they could.