by Andre Norton
Since they had no tools, the Falconer used his sword to hack at the turf, loosening clods which Tirtha broke away and piled to one side. The grave they so dug was a shallow one, but they did the best they could. When they laid him in it, the girl brought forth a square scarf, such as she used in bad weather to cover her head under the folding of her hood, to lay over his face. She helped repile the clods of turf, then brought stones from the brook edge to add cover. When they had done, she arose from her knees, regarding broodingly the mound they had raised.
Tongue tip swept across her lower lip as she found words. They were not those formal ones she had heard said many times when she was not yet woman grown, but they were the best she could summon at this hour:
“May your sleep be sweet, stranger, may your path beyond be smooth, may you come to your desiring and it give you peace.” She stooped, picked up one white stone that was nearly round, fashioned so, she thought, by water's rolling, and which she had laid aside for this purpose. As if she were indeed kin-blood and close kin, she placed this above the hidden head of the dead man. It bore no symbol of the old Power, nor could she breathe into it any spell of releasing. But through the last hard years, Tirtha had come to believe that such formalities were intended to lighten a little the grief of kin left behind rather than touch one who had already taken the Long Road and who, perhaps, had already forgotten this world, impatient for what lay beyond.
She knew nothing of what the Falconers believed concerning this life or what lay beyond it, but now she saw her companion take his sword, holding it by the blade, its hilt high. Then he turned the length of steel so that the hilt, as he moved his arm, traveled down the length of the grave while he chanted, in a voice hardly above a harsh whisper, words that held no meaning for her.
Afterward they looked to the horse. It would seem that the sealing of its master into the earth had, in an odd way, broken the anger that had made it so wary and wild. It had wandered away, and was now cropping grass awkwardly, the bit in its mouth manifestly bothering it. Slowly, with care, Tirtha approached, stopping short when it lifted its head to stare at her.
There was no longer any emanation of fear or hatred. She went ahead coolly, lifted the two saddle bags from their place while the Falconer busied himself with the horse itself, stripping off saddle and bridle, rubbing down the rough coat on which there were matted splotches of dried blood.
Within the bags were a packet of trail bread, another of dried meat, both very meager, a twist of coarse woven stuff which contained a mass of dried huk-berries squeezed into an uneven ball. Below those was a flask, battered, with its intricate plating scratched and dented. Tirtha forced the stopper out and sniffed the odor of the fiery corn spirit which could not only inwardly warm a man in the cold, but was equally useful for treating wounds so that they did not mortify.
Turning the flask around, she studied the style of ornamentation. It was Old Race work plain enough, and indeed out of Karsten, from the aged look of it. However, there was no particular part of its patterning which made it unique—no crest on this anyway.
The other bag yielded a shirt, which had been poorly washed and then rough dried, creased into as small a role as possible. There was a honing stone and a small amount of oil for the tending of any edged weapons, though the dead man had not managed to keep his. But, last of all, there was a tight-capped cylinder about the length of her palm—also old metal—with only faint traces of some engraving to be detected along its sides. Such she had seen once or twice. They were fashioned to protect parchments, which were precious things—records to which hold-lords and songsmiths clung.
Each had a trick to the opening of the cap. It could not be forced lest it and perhaps its contents be destroyed. She turned it around now, its smooth surface slipping in her grasp as if oiled. This might be the answer to their mystery—to her mystery. But as yet she was in no hurry to pursue it. Tirtha sat back on her heels as the Falconer loomed over her, looking down at the result of her rummaging. She knew that his attention centered on the thing she held, so she made no attempt to belittle her discovery. “It is a record holder—very old.”
He could see that much for himself. Though she did not in the least want to let the thing out of her hands, Tirtha held it out to him as if her own curiosity was only nominal. Since the sighting of that badge-crest she well knew that he must believe she kept more than one secret, and she had no wish to add to his suspicions.
“Open it!”
That was an order and she stiffened. She was right, his suspicions were aroused. Had he some idea that she had come into these mountains perhaps to meet with the dead man? But she owed him no explanations. When he took sword oath for a stated time, he must serve her in everything save that which would dim his own honor as a warrior. What stood between them now was the aversion of his race toward any female, their refusal to accept that a woman had truth in her. She had heard enough of the Falconers in Estcarp to be aware of their belief and what it had cost them.
“If you know anything of these”—she gestured to the rod he now held—“you also know that they are sealed secretly and that only those who carry such and perhaps their close kin—or a sword brother, a shield mate—know the trick of the fastening. This man was no kin to me—I cannot loose his secrets.”
It might become necessary to try, at some point, Tirtha thought, even if it meant destroying the container. Though again that could well threaten any contents. She wanted very much to know who the stranger was, why he rode these mountains. Had he also been headed for Karsten? Would it advance her case with this other, whose distrust now appeared so tangible that she could feel it, if she were to tell more of her story? She shrank from such a self-betrayal. Her quest was hers alone, a precious thing to be doubly guarded because, if she told the story properly, he might well consider it either part of an hallucination spun for some dark purpose or think it the dreaming of a stupid woman, such as he was already certain she must be.
He was inspecting the faint line of cleavage at the top of the rod closely. Certainly there was no lock or fastening here. Now his eyes sought hers again through the helm slits.
“You call yourself Hawkholme—perhaps so did that one.” He used the rod itself as a pointer to indicate the mound they had built. “Yet you say he was a stranger. I know the Old Race well. They are closely kin-tied as a part of their heritage.”
Tirtha shook her head slowly. “Yes, we are kin-tied—just as securely as you are tied to your sword-brothers. Still I found you alone in Romsgarth and you answered to Blank Shield—is that not the truth? Where then are those you shared comradeship with?”
Those yellow sparks in his eyes blazed. She saw his lips move as if he wished to lash out at her with words of hot abuse. What had brought him without his bird—in such a sorry state—into Romsgarth? She had never heard that it was in any Falconer born to leave his company, to drift alone. It was as if they held a wall against the whole world and could not see past that barrier into any other way of life.
Tirtha had no wish to force an answer from him. What lay behind him was his own concern. But he must grant to her the same dignity of no questions. However, she could yield a little, without laying bare all that had driven her through the years.
“We were horned in Karsten, hunted without warning, as the farmers sometimes hunt hares in the spring—beating the fields to bring them into a circle where they can be clubbed and killed. So was the Old Race hunted. Though we”—she raised her head proudly, meeting him stare for stare—“fought and did not cower and scream beneath the clubs. It was death and blood from the hunting packs for us or any who dared to give warning.
“Some of us got into Estcarp. The Borderers were Karsten warriors. You must know that—your own people rode with them. But there was a breakage of kin lines. Some holds were overrun, none of their folk escaping. From others a handful might flee safely. I . . .” Her hand sought that well-worn sword, brought it out of its scabbard into the light. “I am of the B
lood of two who fled so. Hawkholme went down, but the younger brother of the Lord and his newly wedded wife were not within its walls. They had gone to a guesting with her kin and so were closer to the border—to freedom. There was a farseeing—for in my mother there was some of the talent—and she saw death. I am the last of Hawkholme.” She slammed the sword back into its scabbard. “Who this stranger was—that I cannot tell you. For farseeing does not lie and it was plain—Hawkholme went into the fire and with it all those of the Blood.”
“Farseeing . . .” he repeated and paused.
She nodded. “Witches’ trick—would you call it that, Falconer? To each race its own secrets. You have talents, even if they are not of a Wise Woman's summoning. How else could you have trained your birds, kept so well the watch in these mountains before they were moved? I do not disdain what you have of your own; see that you do not try to lessen what my people possess either. I have not the real talent, but I have seen it work, and well, many times over! Now,” she reached forward, and before he could prevent it, she had plucked the record rod out of his fingers. “What do you say that we move on? You have said that the dead died of . . .”
Something glinted behind his shoulder. She caught sight of it and stiffened. He must have read her expression, for he slewed about, sword ready. Only what he saw was not moving, certainly had not yet presented any threat. It was visible on the valley wall above this strip of meadow, and no living thing could perch on that perpendicular height.
The angle of the sunlight now brought a definite pattern into sharp visibility. Without conscious volition Tirtha moved forward, brushing past the Falconer, her full attention claimed, as if she were indeed ensorceled by those shiny lines which spiraled, outward, becoming more and more distinct.
As Tirtha pushed through a last screen of brush, unheeding when it caught at her garments, laid scratches across her hands, she saw that the whole face of the cliff must have been shorn away during the troubling of the mountains. But if that were so, then what was so plainly visible now must have been hidden deep before. For what purpose?
What she read was a sign she had seen only once before, when she had wintered in Lormt, that greatly revered and nearly deserted repository of truly forgotten knowledge. She had made herself useful in a barnlike barracks once dedicated to the use of scholars and legend-keepers, now inhabited by a handful of the very old, some still delving into rolls and records, others content to doze away the latter days of their lives—a haven for those withdrawing from the cold winds of the world as it was.
That symbol had been on a scroll unrolled on a table where one of the most forgetful of those Tirtha had come to look upon as her charges had left it. She had researched during scraps of free time, striving to learn anything that could be of service in the future task which she had set herself. So she had asked concerning that symbol, to be told that it was indeed very old, once a defense against any encroachment of evil where it had been pictured or inlaid or engraved after proper ritual. Now it shone out here, apparently set into the stone.
But why? Tirtha swung around to view the pocket of valley. What lay here, to be protected in days beyond modern reckoning? Or had it been intended for this valley at all? The churning of the mountains must have brought it into sight. What had it once guarded in hiding?
“What is it?” The Falconer came to stand shoulder to shoulder with her. He had not returned his blade to its sheath. Now, with his claw, he pulled off his helm as if he could so see those marks the clearer.
“That is a strong defense against the Dark—one used in very ancient times to hold safe a portion of the land as no wall or steel could—more witchery, warrior,” she added, a fraction of mockery in her tone. “I wonder . . .”
That thing they had slain in the night—it was certainly not of Estcarp, nor Karsten either. There was that war which still raged to the eastward between the Shadow and the Light. Had such a conflict once touched this land? Mystery upon mystery. Yet below that mark on the wall, unless all she had ever learned was false, there lay safety.
Had the dead man fought to reach this valley because of it? Not wounded by dart or steel, but by claws and fangs. Had he suffered those wounds some distance away and headed for this small island of safety—reached it too badly injured to live?
“This is wild land.” Now the Falconer sheathed his weapon, his helm swung in his claw. “Who would put such a safeguard here?”
“This is an old land, very old,” she returned. “It hides years upon years of secrets. Perhaps the mountains, when they leaped at the Call of the Council, merely moved into a pattern once known before. At any rate, this is a protected place.” She brought up her hand, stretching the fingers to form a sign of recognition. “Here we can be safe. He might have been,” she glanced over her shoulder at the mound, “had he reached it unwounded. We cannot tell what may be abroad now. Would you still move on, or shall we give our beasts a chance of rest and good forage?”
He still studied the sign on the cliff side. “You speak of years—and I-think those may have piled up beyond counting. Does any ensorcelment last so long?”
“By the legends it may. Let us see . . .” She pushed on until she could touch the stone of the cliff wall. The symbol was well above her head. Looking about, Tirtha caught up a branch half embedded in the earth, jerked it free. From her pouch she took the record rod they had found. There could be yet another reason why the dead man had fought so valiantly to reach this place, if he knew of the symbol and had not come here by mere chance or the wandering of the Torgian bearing a near-conscious rider.
In her belt pouch was a looping of leather for the mending of her boots, and she selected one strand to bind the record rod to the branch end.
“These holders,” she explained as she worked, the Falconer watching her closely but plainly without understanding what she would do, “are made charged with certain powers. They cannot be fashioned in these days for their secret had been lost. But I was at Lormt two winters since, and one can learn how things may work, if not why—that being forgotten. The symbol there is wrought of charged metal—worked by smiths who had talent, who knew their witchery, as you would say. It is a very old knowledge that like answers to like. If the power still lies in these two workings, the cliff and the rod, different as they may seem, then we shall have proof of it. Now!”
Having tested her lashing, Tirtha stood to tiptoe, one hand braced against the cliff side, the other raising the branch as far as she could, so that the record rod did, indeed, reach the bottommost looping of that inlay. She nearly cried out.
Feeding downward, even through the dead wood she held, came a surge of power, while both symbol and rod gave forth a thin bluish light. She jerked the stick away, afraid that perhaps such an awakening might consume the rod itself. But she had been right! Blue was the color of protective Power always. There were many accounts at Lormt concerning places of refuge which could be so identified, though those must lie in Escore since Estcarp boasted none that she knew of. And if the rod had also blazed blue, then what it contained held Power, was not just some simple message!
Her hand stung as a queer prickling ran along her fingers. Quickly taking the branch into her left fist, Tirtha flexed and bent those fingers. An exclamation from her companion brought her attention away from her own reaction, from knowing that she meddled with what she did not understand and had probably been too reckless in trying.
He had seized upon the branch above her own hold and nearly shook it free of her grasp in his excitement. Then she saw, also. The hair-thin line which had marked the sealing place on the rod was not only wider, but it was ringed by a slim blue line of fire, as if energy ate the old metal.
“Don't touch it—not yet!” Her cry came swiftly, as he was about to free it from its lashing. “Not unless you want, perhaps, to lose another hand!”
He loosed his hold to stare at her, suspicion again in his face. Tirtha laid the branch and rod carefully at the gravelly foot of the cliff a
nd watched. It was true! There was an ever-increasing opening. She looked at her hands, at her sword. If that blue light did not continue, she might try to force it more. However, the reaction that had reached her even through the length of dead wood was a warning. They must wait until whatever had begun worked itself out.
She glanced up. There was nothing to be read now by the lines on the rockface. Their shining was as it had been at her first sighting. The influence, whatever it might be, had passed into the rod. Now that was failing also. At least the blue strip about the one end was losing brightness. As it failed she could see a dark space, and she was sure that the sealing had been sprung. That she had succeeded in such an act was as surprising to her as it must be to the Falconer, who watched the cylinder of metal intently, even as he might look into the eyes of an enemy, with the same wariness and readiness for battle.
It had been only experimentation, a wild guess on her part. That it worked...! Had this been the reason to draw the dead man here with his last failing strength—that he might read a record as important to him as life itself?
The blue light vanished. Tirtha knelt, stretched out her hand, very cautiously, toward the lashing of the rod. She could sense no heat, nothing of that energy which had touched her before. The gap in the rod remained apparent.
Very carefully she worked at the knotted thong, moving gingerly when she had to touch the rod itself. When there followed no pricking, she took confidence, twisted it free. Gripping the cap in her fingers, she gave a sharp pull. There was resistance, but only slight. Then the small round of metal came free, the rod remaining in her other hand. She dropped the cap, upended the rod to shake it above her left palm. Nothing was forthcoming. When Tirtha inspected it more closely she could see a roll inside, tight against the wall of the small cylinder. That had to be worked out very carefully. If this scrap was old, it might well vanish into dust under rough handling.
She held a roll of what could only be several layers of the same reptile skin as formed her money belt, glued one to another to make a sheet akin to parchment, but infinitely more durable. She spread it wide to view a jumble of symbols that made no sense at all.
