by Andre Norton
He sat by the fire eating hungrily, wiping the grease from his fingers with a tuft of grass before he turned to the Falconer.
“Lord Nirel . . .”
“I am no lord, Little Brother,” countered the other. “We do not use the lowland titles, we of the Eyrie.” Then he paused, for he must be remembering, Tirtha knew with a flash of insight, that the Eyrie and its brotherhood had long since vanished.
“I think then,” said Alon, with his head a little on one side, “that I shall call you Swordmaster Nirel, for you are surely one who is that. But you wear more than one sword at your belt . . .” He pointed to the strange weapon. “And I have never seen the like of that one. Though Master Parlan had old comrades come now and then to visit with him, and many of them carried weapons which they cherished and in which they had great pride. What is that?”
The Falconer drew the dagger-sword. Now the gem in the pommel was darkly opaque—even the firelight could raise no gleams from its inner part. It might have been as dead as any lump of metal.
“I do not know, in truth, Little Brother. It is a gift from Wind Warrior, and it holds within it that which I do not understand.” He extended it closer into the firelight so that the flame lit the inlays on its blade. “I think that it is not only very old, but that it is a thing of Power, perhaps even like the Axe of Volt.”
It was apparent that Alon had never heard of that fabulous weapon. But now he held out a finger not to touch, but to sketch in the air just a little above, the symbols on the blade as he passed each one in a sweep from hilt to point.
“This picture”—he paused above one near the end of that line—“is like unto a thing which Yachne wore beneath her robe on a chain about her neck. It was a secret thing, I think. I only saw it the once, and she quickly hid it again. Did this come from overmountain, or is it falcon power?”
“The Falconers do not deal with any power,” came a somewhat repressive answer. “Nor is this out of Estcarp, as far as I know. It must have been borne by one of Estcarp's enemies, for we found it where a mountain fall had trapped and killed those who were the invaders. Though why one of Karsten would have carried a thing they would have deemed cursed—that is also strange and hard to believe.”
“Yes, it must be very old.” Alon swept his hand up the length of the blade, this time toward the hilt, as if he could, by the very gesture, read something of what it was and for what purpose it must serve its possessor. “But it is not for the letting of blood—none has ever stained it.”
He spoke with an authority that made them both stare. Then he gave a little self-conscious laugh. “If Yachne were here, I would have a clout across the mouth for speaking so. She did not like me to say what I knew, even when I knew it. But it is true. There is a feel to a thing that has killed; it clings to aught which has let blood. I do not sense it here. Yet in its way this is a weapon.”
“Rather,” Tirtha interrupted, “I would call it a key of sorts. For it was through this the Falconer brought you—or he and his falcon—brought you back to this world. It is a power thing, and it answers to them, whether they claim the talent or not.”
Alon blinked. “In time it may do even more. I should have Yachne's learning, then perhaps I could take it in my hands and see. It is strange, but inside me now I feel very different, as if there is something before me that is all new, standing ready for me to discover it. I . . . I am no longer Alon, the always-babe, but another—one I do not yet know, and yet whom I must speedily learn.”
9
FOR three days they drifted westward. There were no trails in the foothills, though once or twice they chanced upon indications that they did not travel through a deserted country. There were signs of old campfires, unhidden, and hoof prints of horses stitched soft earth. Still the falcon, scouting aloft, reported only native animals.
The last of the supplies they had brought overmountain were gone. Tirtha's bow kept them in meat. There must have been little hunting hereabouts for years, since the pronghorns and the hares were easy to bring down. Alon also possessed knowledge of the wild. He triumphantly dug up fat roots which, when roasted in the fire, broke apart to be tasty and filling.
More and more the older two came to accept Alon as an equal in spite of his childish appearance. Tirtha's careful questioning produced more of his relationship with Yachne—plainly a Wise Woman of such talent as would have placed her high in Estcarp.
“She was”—Alon frowned slightly as he tended the fire on their third night of encampment—“not of the kin Parlan claimed, nor was she, I am sure, even of the blood they knew. She had been many years with his household, for she came with his mother when she was a girl first handfasted to his father. She was old, yet always she looked the same without change. And it was she who went alone to find me when I was left kinless, bringing me back to the household. Also”—his eyes darkened oddly, as if to hide part of his thoughts—“she was not there when Gerik came. She had gone seeking a rare herb which she thought would draw Parlan out of his fever, or so she said. Had she been within the walls I do not think Gerik could have entered. Yachne”—he nodded, as if to underline the importance of what he said—“could read the Dark Ones. Twice she told Parlan to send away men who came to him seeking shelter, and one of them was a long-time comrade he would have trusted.”
“And this garth master always listened to her advice?” the Falconer asked.
Alon nodded once more. “Always. I think he was even a little afraid of her. Not that she would do him or his any harm, but because she knew things that he did not understand. Men always seem to fear what they cannot find a direct reason for.” Again it was as if someone far older sat there, licking grease from his fingers, wearing the outward appearance of a child who must be protected from the rigors of the world. If Tirtha closed her eyes and listened only to his speech, she built up in her mind a far different Alon, always to be slightly startled when she looked directly at the boy again.
“She was—is a Wise Woman,” Tirtha said now. “Such are always to be found among our people. But if she returns and finds the garth as it now is, will she follow us?”
One possessing the Power could well use the trance (as she herself had attempted) and trail them as easily as if they had left all manner of open markings behind. She saw the Falconer stir. His frown was twice as heavy as Alon's had been. This man could accept her, Tirtha, since she had dealt with him after the established custom, claimed his services by open bargain. But that he might ride with a true Wise Woman whom his kind held close to hatred—no. Nor would she herself welcome such a one who might read her and her mission as easily as one would understand a fair-written scroll.
For a long moment Alon apparently considered her question, his head a little atilt in the same fashion as the bird would hold his feathered crest when appealed to. Then, slowly, he shifted his gaze, past Tirtha, past the fire, out into the dark.
“I do not feel her,” he said simply. “When I try, there is nothingness. Yet I do not think she is dead. Perhaps, knowing that the garth is gone, she has followed some plan of her own. She is a secret person.” Now he looked back to Tirtha. “I could tell many things about other of Parlan's people. I knew when they feared, or were happy over some matter, or when they were about to sicken. But with Yachne you did not know. There was always a barred door past which you did not go. I think that she aided Parlan not because she held any liking within her for his clan, but rather as if there rested between them a debt she was paying. Perhaps it was so with me also. Though I also believe that she found in me some future use . . .” He appeared now to be thinking aloud rather than trying to answer any of Tirtha's yet unspoken questions, turning over ideas which had long puzzled him.
“You would know if she were near?” The Falconer asked that sharply, in a tone that was meant to arouse, bring a quick answer.
“Yes. Even if I could not find her directly, I would mind-touch her inner wall.”
“Good enough. I think”—the man regarded
the boy measuringly, those old yellow sparks plain in his eyes—“that you will tell us if you sense such.” He might have meant that for a question, but it came forth more as an order.
“Yes.” Alon's answer was brief. Tirtha, at that moment, was in two minds whether they could rely upon it or not. She knew that there was nothing of the Dark in this child. Still, that did not mean that he would consider himself committed to their own quest. They might claim a debt for saving his life but she had no wish to do so. Those who weighed and balanced such acts were tarnished by the doing. One gave aid freely when it was necessary. There was to be no payment returned, save by the desire of the debtor. In so much, in spite of all the hardness of her life, she held to the ways into which she had been born. Nor did she believe that the Falconer would argue differently. The sword-oath he had taken made his road hers as long as their bargain held.
She shifted restlessly. To head on guideless, as they had been doing, was folly; she must know more concerning the direction in which their goal lay. In order to do that, she must dream or else evoke another trance. Only such dreams had eluded her now for days. Her sleep was deep and heavy at night. If she had walked in strange ways, she carried no memories back into waking. To try once more the herb-induced trance, with perhaps this Yachne somewhere about . . . The entranced one was always vulnerable. She had been reckless when she had attempted it before and certainly she had not been in command, for she had not been led to Hawkholme—rather to Alon.
Tirtha had come to suspect that it had been the force of the power Alon had employed without willing it that had drawn her own talent and that led them to the garth. Any gift so much greater than her own small one could bend her to another's will when she was in the disembodied state. Also, Alon had spoken of the Dark spreading eastward. To be caught by a strong evil will . . .
Yet to continue to wander aimlessly—that achieved nothing. She looked to the boy across the fire now, her eyes narrowed a little. There was one way—yet she shrank from discussing it, from even considering it. All her life she had fought for her independence, for the ability to order her own existence as much as any living creature might in an uncertain world. To surrender in even this need came very hard. She looked down at her calloused brown hands, clutched so tightly on a fold of her cloak that her knuckles stood in sharp relief. Will fought need within her until at last that same common sense which she had clung to during all her plans triumphed.
“I must use the trance.” She spoke as sharply as the Falconer had done in his questioning of Alon. “That need may not be delayed any longer. I seek guides, and those I can only gain in that fashion. But one entranced, without protection, is in danger. My—my talent is limited. Therefore, when I go seeking, there could well be those of greater power to take and bind me to their will.”
The Falconer's frown was dark, his mouth a straight slash across his face. Tirtha knew that with every word she uttered, she aroused opposition in him, brought to the fore all the dislike he had for such as she was. Only his oath bound him, but in that she had a foundation. Alon was watching her with a similar intent stare, but with none of the resentment that the Falconer radiated. His attitude was one of excitement and interest, such as any ordinary boy might show before a feat of action.
“I need your help.” Those were the hardest four words she remembered uttering in years.
The Falconer made a quick gesture of repudiation, using his claw as if, with that symbol of grim loss, such a negation of what she had asked was thereby made the stronger. Alon, however, nodded briskly.
Now she looked directly to the man. “This is a thing you wish no part of, that I know. It is not bound without your oath.” In that much she would yield to him. “But I have seen what you and your bird brother can do, and so I ask of you, not aid in my going forth, but another kind of help—protection against what might well net me while I am in that other state.”
It was Alon who answered her and not the Falconer, and he did not speak to her but to the man.
“Swordmaster, this Lady asks of you protection. She says that you are not oath-bound to give it after the fashion in which she must now have it. Perhaps that is so. I know of sword oaths and shield men only what I have heard in tales and accounts of the old wars and troubles. Perhaps it is against your own beliefs that you do such a thing, but this is not of the Dark. Therefore a man does not break his innermost allegiance if he follows a path that helps, not harms. I do not know how great an aide I can be in such a matter.” He now addressed Tirtha directly. “I think there is much, very much, that I must learn concerning myself. But what I have now”—he held out his hands as if he were offering her something as invisible as he himself had been when they first found him—“is at your service.” Once more his eyes swung to the Falconer as if he waited.
The man had drawn from its sheath the weapon of power, then rammed it back with savage force. His rage, controlled with an icy strength, was visible to them both. He spoke as if he would bite each word drawn from him and answered harshly.
“I hold not with witchery. But also I am indeed oath-bound, though you”—he looked flame-eyed at Tirtha—“have said that in this that is not so. However, the boy is right—one does not give half oaths if one is of the blood. What would you have of me?”
She felt no elation. To have him believe that she had in a manner forced this might even endanger what she would do. For their wills must be united lest there be an opening for the Dark to twist one against the other. Tirtha leaned forward to pinch up dust, as much as she could hold between her thumb and forefinger, her eyes on him rather than on what she did. She saw his gaze narrow.
“Twenty days we agreed. However, if I will it and say I am now satisfied, then our bargain is dissolved even as . . .” Her hand raised, about to toss what she held into the air.
He moved the swifter. His fingers imprisoned her wrist in a hard grip, holding her hand fast so that she might not loose the dust and so break their bargain. She did not believe that it was altogether the firelight that made his face seem flushed. Surely his eyes were fully alive with anger.
“Twenty days I said, and in all ways I do my duty—on shield oath.”
“It must be done willingly.” She disliked this inner struggle between them, wanting none of it. Let him ride off and be rid of her and all witchery. “For one to hold back even in thought will open doors. I do not know what may threaten, only this is a dangerous land. What I would do is as perilous as if I rode disarmed into an outlaw camp. Help—must—be—given—willingly.”
He dropped his hold on her, settled back. “You know best your needs,” he returned tonelessly. “I shall endeavor to aid as you wish. What is it you desire of us?”
“I must go again out of my body,” Tirtha said deliberately and slowly. “Perhaps that power, which you and the feathered brother share and which Alon has a portion of, can in a manner follow me and so protect my return road so that none else, or no alien will, can make of me a tool or a weapon.”
“Very well.” He turned his head a fraction, gave one of those small chirruping calls which summoned the falcon. The bird perched on his claw wrist where it rested on his knee.
“I cannot tell you against what or how you shall stand guard,” she continued. “Nor do I know if this thing is even possible. But fasten your minds upon the wish that I may succeed in what I strive to do. I hunt a guide to Hawkholme that we may head overland to where it once stood. Keep in your minds that name and the wish that I, in vision, may travel swift and sure over the countryside between where we are and that place. This”—she lifted her hands a little—“is all I can ask, for I do not know how else to bind us together.”
“Go, we shall follow.” It was not the Falconer who had given that firm promise, rather the boy.
Tirtha took from her belt pouch the potent herb and tossed it into the fire. She saw the Falconer again draw his weapon of power, drive the point of the blade into the earth before him. She leaned forward and inhaled deepl
y the smoke which brought with it a strong smell of spice and other goodly odors.
There was no going into dark this time. Rather she was enveloped by a blaze of blue light so strong that she nearly retreated, then warmth and strength reached out to surround her. She moved as firmly and with such purpose as she might have walked on a road in Estcarp.
The light accompanied her. She looked up to see a globe of blue (the blazing pommel of the weapon?) spinning with her into the place of otherness. Then that light began to fade as she moved on into a grayness.
Though Tirtha had no impression of foot touching ground, there was land about her, solid looking and as real as any they had covered in their passage through the foothills. The darkness of trees, massed together, arose on one hand, while to the right stood a bare escarpment of rock across which ran a notable vein of black. This was one of the marks to remember, that much Tirtha understood.
The veined wall began to sink lower and lower into the earth as she left the heights behind. Now that distinguishing sable marking disappeared; it was only a ridge of rock she followed.
Hawkholme—even as she had told the others to do, so did she now hold that name firmly in mind. Her one fear was that she might be whirled into the repetition of her old dream and not learn the way, only arrive within that hold, to relive once more the final action.
Tirtha was out of the hills. Open country lay beyond and to her right. To her left the wood thickened into a forest, a growth so tangled that she did not believe anyone could force a pathway through. When she turned her head slightly to view it, she saw a flickering movement that was stealthy and yet continuous. Within that screen of entwined limbs and vines and brush, something paced at her own speed, spied upon her.
