by Andre Norton
She caught glimpses now and then of a pallid grayness but with no distinct form, which slid easily in and out, the thickness of the wood offering it no opposition. Tirtha would have kept to the open, yet what she had summoned up by her will drew her toward the wood in spite of misgivings.
Always that which paced there watched. Tirtha sensed a malignant threat, but she determined not to try to learn more. All her concentration must be centered on reaching Hawkholme.
Even as she set her will so determinedly, Tirtha turned a fraction to head straight for the wood. Here the underbrush appeared less interwoven. There were faint indications that there had once been an opening, that perhaps a long overgrown road had run in this direction. The lurker was still there, yet it did not manifest itself to meet her, rather it followed the same procedure, heading into the undergrowth parallel to her own path.
At intervals the old road was more open. She sighted once or twice a tall stone set on end, as if to mark her path. There were other objects farther back, emitting a pale and ghostly light. She sensed essences there of things that were totally alien, rooted or imprisoned where they stood. Against these the girl hurriedly raised mind barriers, for she felt the touch of a demanding desire reaching for her.
This wood was a place of menace. Even were she here in body and not just in essence, she would have found it so, that she knew. Yet what she sought lay beyond it, and there was no escaping the journey.
How long it would take to traverse the sinister forest, she had no way of knowing. Tirtha had the impression that such a journey was no short span.
However, there came at last an end, where the overgrowth trail opened again on meadow land. Here were fields which had once been walled, those stone barriers crumbling now, yet their lines plain to read. Through them curled a stream nearly of a size to be proclaimed a river. On the other side of that . . .
A vast surge of emotion, which she could not define, gathered within her, such as she had never felt before. Even from afar she could see that the defenses the builders of this hold had planned had failed in the end. Strong walled towers, a mighty keep had been raised upon a mound, at the foot of which washed a side channel of the river which had been diverted to ring around the hold. There were the splintered remains of a bridge—now only broken timbers—across a stretch of water to the gap that formed the entrance.
In all, this was a larger and more formidable hold than she had thought, although the huge hall of her dreams had argued it was part of a major building. The clan that had wrought it must have been a strong and well numbered one—and one with enemies, for the whole scene before her suggested that defense had been highly important.
Tirtha had found her goal. Now she deliberately set about relaxing her will—that will which was still bearing her onward toward the ruin. There was no need to travel farther.
The blow came like a blast of winter's wind against an unclad body. Deep and numbing cold cut at her. Tirtha had not believed pain could be felt by one in her present state. How wrong this thing out of nowhere was proving her! She fought, strove to free herself from that agonizing icy horror which battled to keep her prisoner. Now, her will cried out, now—if you can hear me, sense me, aid me—bring what power you have to draw me back!
Had the other two indeed followed her, did they know that she had been so taken? If she had no aid, she was lost, for that cold ate into her will, tearing it apart as a wild wind shreds a cloud.
“Come!”
She could not cry that aloud, but her whole self shaped itself into that plea. Was she being driven back into the same limbo that had held Alon when they found him?
Warmth—a faint glow of warmth. The cold pressed, but there was warmth, and somehow she could draw it to her little by little, hoard it within to keep cold and death at bay. The strand of warmth gave an upward surge, grew stronger.
The cold had reached for her, had sought to compel her onward toward the ruin just when she had striven to break the compulsion she had used to bring her here. It wanted her inside. Now she wavered—if an essence could waver. The drag forward, the chilling against the warmth being fed into her. Her will awoke from the effects of that first, numbing, near-fatal blow. Back—she fastened not on Hawkholme, rather on her memory of their camp.
Think of Alon—the warmth grew! The Falconer—a thread more of freedom gave her strength; the Falconer—it was his face that filled her thoughts now—a face bearing a terrible set concentration like a mask laid over the man she had grown to accept as a trail comrade. Within his eyes those yellow fires flared high. She could see only those eyes and the fires in them—warmth against the cold—the OTHER who willed her to Hawkholme in a state which it could use. Yes, warmth!
Fire rose about her; tongues of blue flame formed a defense wall. Abruptly the assault of the cold ceased. The fires lingered for a moment, died, and she was in the dark.
Rain—she lay out in the rain—water ran down her face, into her open mouth. She heard hurried breathing, fast, shallow, such as a near-spent runner might have. She opened her eyes—there was a blaze of half light around her head, so that she quickly closed them again, feeling that somehow she had been cut adrift and caught up in something that she could never hope to either escape or control.
“Tirtha, Tirtha!” A call, faint at first and then very strong. She was once more aware of her body, of stiffness and pain. The warmth that had aided her return to life slowly traveled from her head down her entire length.
“Tirtha!”
She dared to open her eyes once again. There was Alon's face, one side of it strangely blue. His eyes held fear; then it faded and he smiled—laughed—as if a burden had been lifted from him.
Tirtha saw that other form kneeling by her, in his hands the sword, tight gripped, its pommel ablaze and the blue light bathing her from head to foot. Increasing strength followed the warmth, flowing into an emptiness she had not realized was there until it was refilled. Cautiously she lifted her head. Almost instantly an arm was thrust beneath her shoulders, bracing her higher. She felt the small, chill touch of that claw against her cheek for just an instant.
Alon squatted on his heels directly before her, his expression one of eagerness. The Falconer, because he supported her, she could not clearly see. He had laid aside the sword. Its output of energy had faded; there was only the faintest glow from it now.
“I—am—back.” Her lips, as they shaped those words, were stiff. In her own ears her voice sounded hardly more than a whisper. “You brought me back.”
For it was from the two of them—no, the three (she must not forget the feathered brother she had sensed as part of her rescue)—had come the warmth, generated within themselves to combat what had lain in wait for her at Hawkholme.
Lain in wait? Tirtha for the first time thought clearly. She had not only the ruin to find, but there was an unknown terror there—one determined to have what? That which she sought herself and still could not name? Logic told her that that might well be the truth. So . . .
She moved her head, her shoulders a little, though she did not try as yet to pull free from the Falconer's support. Perhaps she needed that strong arm behind her to strengthen her—even to remind her—of what she must say to these two, of the decision that was hers to make and about which there could be no choice, for the very honor of the Hawk.
“You found the way?” Before she could speak, Alon's question came.
“I found the way.”
“Then we can go.” He glanced over his shoulder as if he were ready to saddle and ride at once.
“Not ‘we’.” Tirtha had herself in hand now. “This is my quest only.” She looked directly to the Falconer. “I release you—take Alon. There are those overmountain who will give him shelter—the Tregarths—for they know that power does not always run in the same channels. From here I ride alone.”
He regarded her with that same level and angry glance he had worn before when she would have broken their bond in full ceremony.
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br /> “There are twenty days—no less.”
Tirtha sat upright, and he moved away from her quietly. The falcon gave one of its soft cries and fluttered to his claw wrist.
“I lead no one into that. . . .” she declared sharply in return, determined this time to have her will in the matter.
10
YET strong as she thought herself to be, Tirtha did not have her way. The Falconer was stubborn, determined to fulfill his bargain. Though she ordered him twice to use that sense of duty by taking Alon over-mountain, swearing that she would be satisfied, that this would set the balance straight between them, he refused. Tirtha wondered if she must slip away from her companions, only she could not be sure whether the stubborn man would not attempt to track her. It was Alon who confirmed that suspicion when they were alone the next morning, the Falconer having taken the water bottles down to the stream.
“He is single-minded and that rides hard with him,” Alon observed. “These bird men are trained to what they believe is their duty. Thus he would pursue it and you to the end. You cannot shake us off, Lady.” He smiled and gave a small laugh.
Tirtha was not to be beguiled from her own sense of right. “There is danger waiting at Hawkholme. Did that not already strike at me?”
“And did you not then beat it?” he interrupted. “Yes, it waits, but you do not draw back because of it. Neither shall this Swordmaster allow any foreboding to lessen his intent. Nor”—he paused for a second or two before he continued—“shall I. There is in me”—his hands went to heart level at his breast, touching the wrinkled smock Tirtha had washed in a stream—“that I must learn to master and live with. Yachne would not teach me. Did she,” his face screwed up into a frown, “fear me?” He asked that not of Tirtha but of himself, as the girl was well aware. “Yet there was much of the power in her—one could feel it always. And I am not Wise. I am not—what then am I?” Again he spoke to Tirtha. “Have you seen my like before? They tell me many tales of Estcarp—that the old knowledge was treasured there, not lost, forgotten by the Old Race as it was here.”
Tirtha made fast the latching of her saddlebag. “I have not seen any male before who has commanded the Power. The Witches who rule in the north say such a thing is unnatural, and therefore perhaps of the Dark.”
Alon was on his feet in one supple movement, to stand staring at her, wide-eyed.
“I am not . . .” His protest came sharp and quick.
“Do you think that I do not know that? The Dark Ones cannot hide what they are to any of our blood. Also there is one man, Simon Tregarth, who has something of the talent. However, he is not of our blood, but an outlander who came through one of the Gates. It is also true that his two sons command strange forces, and they carried them and their Witch sister westward into Escore so that they broke the old curse to open that land to all of our race again.
“Though perhaps to no peaceful purpose, for there were many evils loose there, and now they war. Those of the Old Race, who followed the Tregarth calling to the east, fight against many Dark perils. There have been scores of stories during the past few years, perhaps twisted in the telling as such often are. Still we hear of battles won and lost, a country rent by the will of things unlike human kind. It could be that Escore blood has ventured westward here.” She sat with her hands clasped together studying Alon measuringly.
“You said that you were son to one this Parlan knew,” she continued.
“I said”—he was quick to correct her—“that that was what was told me. The truth is that Yachne brought me to Parlan's clan and told such a tale. So I was accepted, for the man she named as my father was blood-brother by sword oath to Parlan—and it was true he was dead, his lady having vanished also after the battle, and was thought to be slain during the retreat that followed. That was Yachne's story, but”—he drew a deep, long breath—“can one believe it? There are the Gates. Those I have heard of—even of Tregarth's coming—and of that which the Kolders used when they entered this world and strove to make it theirs. Could it be that I am also such an outlander?”
His eyes were large, wide open, and there was that same eagerness in his face which he had shown the night before when she had asked of them their aid in farseeing.
“You have the look of the Old Race outwardly,” Tirtha observed. “Yet you have also power—and the measurement of how much is something I cannot make. I have only a scrap of the talent. I can heal a little; I can farsee when entranced; and I can dream. I am not your Yachne. Also perhaps I am now one who is walking straight into such danger as cannot be reckoned.”
“Still you must go to the Hawkholme,” he said slowly, and she did not need the ability to read minds to guess that he longed to ask her the reason for this journey.
Odder still was the feeling within her that, for the first time, she wished to share her secret. As if this small boy, with his oddly mature speech and apparent understanding, had a full right to know what had driven her for so long. However, there was no time for such a sharing, even if she had been willing to break the cautious silence of years, for the Falconer returned at a pace quick enough to set the bottles he carried swinging from his claw, his hand on the butt of his dart gun.
“We ride.” He swung past them to where the ponies and the Torgian were picketed, making it plain that he meant a hasty departure. Tirtha and Alon asked no questions, rather hastened to saddle their mounts. When the Falconer took the lead, he swung north, leaving the stream, holding his pony to a trot that was the best pace for such rough country.
Tirtha pulled level with him. “What have you seen?”
“We may have escaped notice.” He had resumed his helm and now the falcon took wing, ascending into the sky in ever widening circles. “But there were fresh tracks on the other side of the stream.”
She thought furiously. What she had done the night before, drawing the other two into it also? If there were any hereabouts with the faintest trace of talent, they would have been alerted as quickly as if she had purposefully marked a plain back trail or set a signal fire. Perhaps her action had been foolhardy, wildly reckless.
“Outlaws?” she asked. Most drifting through this country would certainly be men from the plains, not those generally receptive to whispers of the Power. Their passing would be by chance only.
He shrugged. “What can one read from tracks in the mud? There were two shod horses of a larger breed—the rest were ponies. A party of six I would say. They headed south and east.”
South and east—that was the direction they themselves must take. Tirtha had sensed in her trance journey that what she sought was not too far distant. Perhaps that ridge with its black veining might be only a day's journey on. However, if they had to detour, it would add to the leagues of travel while their supplies were very low, and they might not have time to hunt or garner any fresh spring plants.
“How long since, do you believe?” she asked.
“Since sunrise.”
His curt answer offered a little relief. Dared she believe that what she had wrought last night had nothing to do with this near meeting? The evidence could point to another camp not too far away—or maybe pursuit! This Gerik—what motive could drive him to follow them? Tirtha could think of one lure—Alon. If the outlaw had guessed that one of the Old Race with unusual powers had slipped through his fingers at the massacre—would that be prod enough to set him following? Gerik—who was he? Was he an outlaw? Or shield man of some ambitious noble now raiding and fighting over the remnants of Karsten? She waved to Alon, bringing him forward until the three of them rode abreast.
“Who is Gerik? Does some other stand behind him?” She shot the questions quickly, saw the Falconer turn his head as if he understood the line her thoughts had taken.
“He is a raider,” Alon answered slowly, “who has come only in the past year into this country. His men—they are . . .” The boy's face was pale, he moistened his lips with tongue tip. Tirtha knew well that she was forcing him back to memories t
hat he had been setting firmly behind him. Still they must know all they could.
“His men . . .” Alon straightened a little in the large saddle. One of his hands rested against the Torgian's neck as if he drew strength and courage from contact with the animal. “They are . . .” He turned his head farther to look directly at Tirtha and the Falconer. “I know it now.” There was a quick lift in his voice. “I thought that they were only what Parlan called the scum—those blank shields no lord would allow to ride under his banner, murderers and worse as some of them were. Only now I understand—there was a real Dark One among them!”
Tirtha's hold on the reins tightened, and her mare near came to a halt. The Falconer's hand, which had hovered near his dart gun ever since they had ridden forth, closed upon its butt.
“And Gerik—he was the one?” Somehow Tirtha kept her voice steady.
Alon shook his head. “I am not sure. Only that he is evil, but . . . No, I do not think that he is anything but a man, a true man, though there was in him . . .” His puzzlement was becoming distress. “When they hunted me, I was too afraid. Now that I am here and know more, I realize that I feared not death alone—though that was a part of it—but something beyond, which was worse.”
“Could they have learned”—the Falconer's mind followed the same path Tirtha's had chanced upon—“that you held control over Power?”
“I do not know, but then I did not know it myself. It was the fear of them that, I think, broke some barrier in me.”
‘There were times in the past when barriers against power could be and were induced in children.” Again Tirtha recalled her researching at Lormt, which had sometimes wandered into side lanes away from the main search she had gone there to make. “Perhaps it was so with you, Alon.”
His distress was open to read. “Then could it have been me Gerik sought? Did I then bring the death—the . . .”
