by Roland Green
Lewin could not conceal what was doubtless impatience with an old man’s ramblings—or, perhaps, eagerness rising from suspicions that Sir Marod would soon yield both wits and power to the advance of time.…
Be sure the owlbear is dead before you string his claws on your belt, young hunter.
“All this could well be true,” Marod said briskly. “But Sir Pirvan is nearly the best man we have for learning what is true and what is not. Even his contending with Aurhinius in Waydol’s War gives him a particular knowledge of the man.”
“It also gives Aurhinius cause to hate Sir Pirvan,” Lewin said. He seemed almost pleading. “Whatever Sir Pirvan may learn, will he and his companions live to tell us?”
You do not know the half of what Pirvan and Haimya have survived, Marod considered. Not to mention their companions, in this case including Knight of the Sword Sir Darin—the minotaur’s heir and as stout a fighter as ever swore the Oath—and a double handful of other seasoned warriors.
“I cannot urge the Grand Master to embattle the knights on behalf of Istar’s tax-gathering expedition,” Marod said briskly. “But you may well be right, that we need two parties watching what goes on in Silvanesti.
“Pirvan and his companions are riding in from the north, across the desert. It might be wise for you to lead a band, equally well chosen and fitted to fight or spy, in from the south or west.”
“Landing on the coast would have us lost in days and arrow-riddled within weeks, without learning any secrets, elven or Istarian,” Lewin said. “Your pardon if this seems a lack of courage, but I think our aim is to have one or even both parties return with what they have learned.”
“Exactly so.”
“Then I can ride to Bloten Keep with a few companions, take on more volunteers and supplies there by your command, and march onward into Silvanesti. That far south, the mountains offer ways other than the defended passes.”
Known only to local guides, thought Marod, most of whom were half-elven and wholly on the side of the Silvanesti, of course. But learning that would be a part of Lewin’s education, even if it was hardly knowledge required by the Oath and Measure.
“I can order up men, mounts, and supplies in ample quantities without question,” Marod said, rising cautiously and wincing as his weight came on the bad leg. “Let me know by nightfall what you will require, and you can be on the road at dawn of the day after tomorrow.”
“You are generous, Sir Marod. I only hope I can repay this in some way.”
“Add to your own reputation and brighten the honor of the knights, and that will be enough.” They gripped hands, and Lewin was gone.
Even better, thought Marod, prove that I did not misjudge you many years ago, and that you have not gone over to those who see the Silvanesti as sheep to be sheared.
Sir Marod knew that he was fighting that rearguard battle against the years that every man, knight or no, eventually loses. But he wanted to close his eyes for the last time without too many thoughts of how great a fool he had been.
Lady Eskaia’s soap was perfumed; her bathwater was not. The house could still afford the best soap; it could not afford perfume by the jug.
The mirror above the bath—one of Jemar’s surprise gifts to her—showed a woman who could have claimed many fewer years than her actual forty. The silver in her hair was coming in with such dignity that she allowed it free rein, but otherwise the years and five children had taken only a light toll on her.
Eskaia twisted a knob; the soapy water gurgled down the drain, and an amazing amount of muzzy-headedness seemed to go with it. She pulled the chain and let sun-warmed rainwater wash her clean, combing her fingers through her long hair to be sure the water reached her scalp.
At last she was clean and the tub refilled. She wrapped her hair in one towel, dried her hands and forearms on another, and pulled the bath tray toward her. It held a pen in a gilded holder, a crystal pot of ink, and several sheets of the lightest parchment.
Eskaia dipped the pen and began to write.
Dear Friends,
It is too long since I have written, and without the excuse of any grief or trouble that has left me no time to write. We are all well. Indeed, I just saw Torvik sail off on what I believe is his tenth voyage. Soon there will be a seasoned sailor where once stood the boy I remember falling asleep on Haimya’s lap.
I will force the affairs of House Jemar to let me write more often. However, I despair of ever finding time to travel all the way to Tirabot, particularly with the children whom you have not seen in, I think, some three years.
I hope the knights and your manor will prove more lenient. I would much like to see Gerik and my namesake before he vanishes into the maw of the knights and she chooses husband or sword—or, if she is as lucky as her mother, both. Also, there is Rubina, whom I doubt I would recognize now—I remember what the years between seven and ten did to my own children.
Eskaia blinked away tears; one thing those years had done was take her son Roskas. The trees around his grave were tall enough to shade it now, but the memory of the day they brought him from the pond was still painful, like an old wound scarred over on the outside but unhealed within.
Now would come the harder part of the letter, not to mention the words more dangerous for strange eyes to see.
I would also like to speak to you privately of how matters fare in Istar. Istar may only call itself the world, but when Istar sneezes, very surely the world reaches for a handkerchief.
Is it true that the present kingpriest is himself honorable and virtuous, but hemmed round by the servants of his predecessor? One preserves silence, even in a letter, about some matters. But nonhuman folk who have found safer homes in Vuinlod than elsewhere say that hatred of nonhumans yet grows with each passing month.
Is that the reason behind this rumor of a campaign in Silvanesti, or do the elves really owe Istar more than the lords of the Mighty City can afford to ignore? Here in Vuinlod we seem to be both far from truth and far from danger.
Indeed, it has been so long since we needed defense against pirates from the sea or bandits from the land that the watch is all middle-aged folk, some fat and lazy, and few of them finished fighters. In even a short time, Pirvan, Haimya, or Darin—even Gerik or Eskaia—could teach them much that they have either forgotten or never learned.
Eskaia looked back at the last three paragraphs and sighed. She wished that she could be more explicit, that she could say, “Bare is a brotherless back, and with you here in Vuinlod, we could guard each other’s.”
But the old sea barbarian saying was only half of the truth. Pirvan and Haimya did not need much guarding by her, but they did need to be farther from Istar, from its intrigues and ambitious lords, and from kingpriests who might not do evil themselves but could not restrain it in others.
They needed this. One day the Swordsheath Scroll would not be enough to keep the peace between Istar and Solamnia. Istar would, in time, issue a dishonorable command, and the knights would have to either refuse and ignite conflict, or yield, lose honor, and find that all of Istar’s enemies were theirs.
Pirvan would have enough trouble in the first case, he and any knight within reach of Istar’s army. Tirabot was a fortified manor, not a keep; it would not take siege engines to break in and reduce it to ghost-haunted ruins, like the old castle.
In the second case, Pirvan would be a walking dead man. Even a command from the knights would not turn him to dishonor or evil. Then he would have blood enemies among his own comrades.
Haimya and Darin would never desert him; likewise Gerik. The four would be doomed. But Eskaia, Rubina, the household—they deserved a hope of safety.
But how did one tell a Knight of Solamnia to turn his back on his enemies even long enough for that?
One did not tell; one hinted—and prayed.
Eskaia read the letter again. She had done enough hinting, and she would pray later, at night, in her chambers. For now—
She rang the bell
for the maids, and called, “I need wax and a message pouch.”
Then she wrote hastily:
If you cannot find the time to indulge your curiosity about Vuinlod, I may yet make time to indulge mine about Tirabot. May it and you fare well in the gods’ keeping until that time comes.
Eskaia
She had just time to blot and fold the parchments before the maids stampeded in.
Chapter 1
His name was Hawkbrother, and he was the fourth son of Redthorn, chief of the Gryphon clan of the desert barbarians. In Redthorn’s time, at least, the many barbarian clans had called themselves the Free Riders, even when the wells ran low and they had to lead their horses to be sure of having them alive when the winter rains came.
In living memory, no other chief’s son—and indeed no other Gryphon warrior—had borne the name Hawkbrother, and with reason. There was a Hawk clan among the Free Riders, and their relations with the Gryphons stopped just short of blood feud. Hawkbrother himself had slain three of the other clan’s fighters in the four years since he had donned the warrior’s cloak and belt.
In the Gryphon clan, no warrior cared to bear a name that might weaken him in battle against the Hawks. Indeed, there were no Hawksisters remembered among the women, either; such a name might make a Gryphon woman feel more friendly toward a Hawk than she ought to.
But on the day Hawkbrother was born, a pair of blue-crested falcons hatched out their eggs in a clump of black-spike, not two hundred paces from the Gryphon camp. When the Gryphons had made camp so that Redthorn’s wife and several other women could bear their babes at rest, it was a wonder the falcons hadn’t fled, leaving their eggs. The hatching and the birth coming on the same day made tongues clatter like dry branches in the firewind.
They stopped clattering only after Skytoucher, the wise woman, came to Redthorn and commanded him to name the boy Hawkbrother.
“Why should I do such a thing?” he replied.
He received the answer he had expected. “Because I command it.”
He also knew that this was not the only answer he would receive. It was a game with Skytoucher, to string out a man (or woman; she could treat both with equal disdain) with a series of questions until she finally gave an answer that made sense to ordinary folk.
“Why do you command it?”
Skytoucher looked less amused than usual by the word game. “I command it because I have had a vision.”
That chilled Redthorn, though it was a hot day—even for high dunes country. Skytoucher had visions (or at least spoke of them) so seldom that young folk with quick tongues and slow wits had been heard to say she could hardly be called a wise woman at all.
The older folk knew better. They remembered how Skytoucher was the only woman in the history of the Gryphon clan to be warrior maid, mother to warriors, speaker for the council of women, and finally, pupil of the Gryphon’s seer until he died and she stepped into his place. All this she had done in less than sixty years, which was a ripe age for a Free Rider, but not a vast one. There were also the feats of climbing that had given her the name she now bore.
“May you speak of this vision, at least to me?”
“Perhaps.”
“I am the chief of the Gryphons, Skytoucher. In their eyes and the eyes of the gods, I bear a great burden. If my knowing of your vision can save as much as a single babe of our people, speaking is your duty before the people and the gods.”
As Redthorn told his son many years afterward, “I nearly stamped my foot as you did when you were little, for I did not see it as my duty to remind Skytoucher of things that she already knew as well as I.”
But Skytoucher had not refused. She nodded and said, “Very well. We need a chief’s son with such a name of power. In time, danger will come to all the Free Riders, and if the Hawk Spirit is pleased, we may well face it side by side with the Hawk Clan.”
“Do you know when this danger will come, and from where?”
“It has begun already, in the Mighty City. When it will come forth, I do not know. But we must be watchful.”
Again, Redthorn added later, speaking to a son whose chest and thighs wore still the soot and ashes of the manhood rites, “I was not sure then and I am not sure now of this matter of names of power. After all, did not mighty Quicksword take the name ‘Gryphons’ for his new clan to keep the beasts away from our horses? And have you ever seen a gryphon turn aside from one of our horses, any more than from another clan’s?”
Still, even if names of power could not blunt a gryphon’s instincts or appetite, they were not to be dismissed entirely. So the babe was given the name Hawkbrother, and in due time became child, youth, and finally man and warrior.
He was the youngest son, which quickened both his wits and his warrior’s skills, for his elders were sure the gods had sent him for them to bully. The years gave him strength so that in time the bullying ceased, but he still knew full well that he was both last and least.
He also knew that his father was too old and too fond of peace in his family and clan to disturb this pattern. Hence, when word came of strangers riding into the desert, Hawkbrother was sent with a band of warriors in the direction where he was least likely to encounter the strangers and win either the honor of their friendship or the glory of victory over them.
Redthorn had spoken firmly to all four sons about their not seeking battle with folk who meant no harm. The Free Riders had different words for stranger and enemy; those who did not, they called barbarians.
At the same time, these strangers were coming out of Istar. Perhaps not from the Mighty City itself, like the mercenaries camping along the fringes of the desert since the spring blooms showed their first colors, but Hawkbrother was the last man among the Gryphons who was likely to forget Skytoucher’s vision.
He was so deeply musing on how to tell friend from foe that when his mount pulled up suddenly, he nearly lost his seat. Either no one noticed, or all were being polite. He was able to smooth out his blanket, then follow where One-Ear’s muscle-corded arm was pointing.
Tiny and dark, discernible only to the keen eyes of a Free Rider, a caravan was creeping over the brow of a distant hill. Hawkbrother looked at the westering sun, and then at the white moon already creeping over the opposite horizon.
He pointed backward and down. Twenty Gryphon warriors dismounted, turned in their tracks, and led their horses down into a hollow.
One-Ear came up to his leader, for whom he had stood witness in the manhood oaths and ordeals, even though he had been preparing for his own when Hawkbrother was born.
“Water and feed the horses?”
“Yes. We will camp here for the night. The only watering place these folk can reach before dark is Dead Ogre Canyon, and any of us can walk there without working up a thirst.”
“What if they go on?”
“I have yet to hear of Istarians traveling by night in our lands.”
“Much may happen without young men hearing of it.”
Hawkbrother tried to glare and succeeded only in grinning. “Old men, too,” he said, then studied the distant figures.
“I admit they seem to know what they are about, better than those sell-swords Istar is sending to amuse the Silvanesti archers. But unless they ride desert-bred mounts, they cannot travel by night without losing folk to falls. They would also leave a trail a Free Rider babe could follow.
“Last of all, the next water is farther than they could travel even if they rode until dawn. If we followed their trail, we might reach them before the carrion birds did. Or we might not.”
“Unless they carry water as we do,” One-Ear interjected.
Hawkbrother frowned. He knew he was being tested, felt that this game should have ended years ago, and doubted that this was the time for it.
None of this would stop One-Ear. Nothing would, save death.
“Well, if these folk are riding desert-bred mounts and know our water ways, it would be good to meet them as soon as possible. They wil
l be strong, either as friend or foe.
“Let us two keep watch, while others see to our mounts. If these folks pass by Dead Ogre Canyon, there will be time to overtake them in the dark. We have some of the best trackers among the Gryphons with us, to say nothing of those skilled at slipping into an enemy’s camp.”
Hawkbrother did not say he was among those skilled men. It was proper for warriors to sing pride songs after the victory, but this night might not even see battle, let alone victory.
Sir Pirvan of Tirabot and all of his band were mounted on desert-bred horses. They also led pack mules, loaded with their tents, bedding, cooking gear, spare weapons, and, besides their personal waterskins, enough water for twice their number. Even Redthorn or Skytoucher would have looked with approval at how they arrayed themselves for the desert.
This did not, however, speed their progress. To begin with, the desert was broad, and those who bred horses for traveling it sought endurance and hardihood, not speed. When they succeeded, the results were not cheap (at least to those who had little money and even less bargaining skill). Pirvan’s purse was not bottomless.
Also, his orders did not tell him where to go. He was to use his best judgment as to where to find answers to the questions Sir Marod and the Grand Master were asking about the Istarian tax soldiers marching on Silvanesti.
His best judgment had so far led him south, skirting the worst of the desert to the east on the way to the borderlands between Istar and Silvanesti. This destination was the size of a none-too-small province; he had to reach it with horses and men still fit for hard work.
Finally, there was the problem of Pirvan’s two largest companions. He would not gladly have left Grimsoar One-Eye behind, when the man asked to go. Not even the best healing could make Grimsoar fit to breathe salt air again for months at a time, but the hot air of the desert or the dry air of the mountains could do no harm and might do some good. And when his breath came easily, Grimsoar was hardly less formidable in fight or frolic than he had been in the days when he and Pirvan were fellow thieves together in Istar the Mighty.
