Hawkmistress! (37 page)

One or two of the people in the streets paused to stare at the blazing red head of the boy, and the slender, trousered, earringed young woman who rode at his side in the scarlet of the Sisterhood and the old-fashioned mountain-cut cloak of fur and homespun. Caryl said under his breath, “They recognize me. And they think you, too, one of the Hastur-kind because of your red hair. Father may think so too. You must be one of our own, Romilly, with red hair, and laran too.”

“I don’t think so,” Romilly said, “I think redheads are born into families where they have never appeared before, just as sometimes a bleeder, or an albino, will appear marked from the womb, and yet no such history in their family. The MacArans have been redheads as far back as I can remember - I recall my great-grandmother, though she died before I could ride, and her hair, though it had gone sandy in patches, was redder than mine at the roots.”

“Which proves that they must at one time have been kin to the children of Hastur and Cassilda,” the boy argued, but Romilly shook her head.

“I think it proves no such thing. I know little of your Hastur-kind-” tactfully she bit back the very words on her tongue, and what little I know I do not much like. But she knew that the boy heard the unspoken words as he had heard the spoken ones; he looked down at his saddle and said nothing.

And now, as they rode toward a large and centrally situated Great House, Romilly began to be a little frightened.

Now, after all, she was to meet that beast Lyondri Hastur, the man who had followed the usurper Rakhal and exiled Carolin, killed and made homeless so many of his supporters.

“Don’t be frightened,” said Caryl, stretching out his hand between their horses, “My father will be grateful to you because you have brought me back. He is a kind man, really, I promise you, Romy. And I heard that he pledged a reward when the courier from the Sisterhood should bring him to me.”

I want no reward, Romilly thought, except to get safe away with a whole skin. Yet like most young people she could not imagine that within the hour she might be dead.

At the great doors, a guard greeted Caryl with surprise and pleasure.

“Dom Caryl … I had heard you were to be returned today! So you’ve seen the war an’ all! Good to have you home, youngster!”

“Oh, Harryn, I’m glad to see you,” Caryl said with his quick smile. “And this is my friend, Romilly, she brought me back-“

Romilly felt the man’s eyes travel up and down across her, from the feather in her knitted cap to the boots on her trousered legs, but all he said was “Your father is waiting for you, young master; I’ll have you taken to him at once.”

It seemed to Romilly that she sensed a way of escape now. She said, “I shall leave you, then, in the hands of your father’s guardsman-“

“Oh, no, Romilly,” Caryl exclaimed, “You must come in and meet Father, he will be eager to reward you…”

I can just imagine, Romilly thought; but Janni had been right. There was no real reason for Lyondri Hastur to violate his pledged word and imprison a nameless and unknown Swordswoman against whom he had no personal grudge. She dismounted, saw her horse led away, and followed Caryl into the Great House.

Inside, some kind of soft-voiced functionary - so elegantly clothed, so smooth, that calling him a servant seemed unlikely to Romilly - told Caryl that his father was awaiting him in the music room, and Caryl darted through a doorway, leaving Romilly to follow at leisure.

So this is the Hastur-lord, the cruel beast of whom Orain spoke. I must not think that, like Caryl himself he must have laran, he could read it in my mind.

A tall, slightly-built man rose from the depths of an armchair, where he had been holding a small harp on his knee; set it down, bending forward, then turned to Caryl and took both his hands.

“Well, Carolin, you are back?” He drew the boy against him and kissed his cheek; it seemed that he had to stoop down a long way to do it. “Are you well, my son? You look healthy enough; at least the Sisterhood has not starved you.”

“Oh, no,” said Caryl, “They fed me well, and they were quite kind to me; when we passed through a town, one of them even bought me cakes and sweets, and one of them lent me a hawk so I could catch fresh birds if I wanted them for my supper. This is the one with the hawk,” he added, loosing his father’s hands and grabbing Romilly to draw her forth. “She is my friend. Her name is Romilly.”

And so at last Romilly was face to face with the Hastur-lord; a slight man, with composed features which, it seemed, never relaxed for a second. His jaw was set in tight lines; his eyes, grey under pale lashes, seemed hooded like a hawk’s.

“I am grateful to you for being good to my son,” said Lyondri Hastur. His voice was composed, neutral, indifferent. “At Nevarsin I thought him beyond the reach of the war, but Carolin’s men, I have no doubt, thought having him as hostage was a fine idea.”

“It wasn’t Romilly’s idea, father,” said Caryl, and Romilly knew that he had thought about, and rejected, telling his father that Orain had been angry about it; it was no time to bring Orain’s name up at all. And Romilly knew, too, from the almost-imperceptible added clenching of the Hastur-lord’s jaw, that he heard perfectly well what his son had not said, and it seemed that a shadow of his voice, faraway and eerie, said almost aloud in Romilly’s mind, Another score against Orain, who was my sworn man before he was Carolin’s. I should keep this woman hostage; she may know something of Orain’s whereabouts, and where Orain is, Carolin cannot be far.

But by now the boy could read the unspoken thought, and he looked up at his father in real horror. He said in a whisper, “You pledged your word. The word of a Hastur,” and she could almost see his shining image of his father crack and topple before his eyes. Lyondri Hastur looked from his son to the woman. He said, in a sharp dry voice, “Swordswoman, know you where Orain rides at this moment?”

She knew that with his harsh eyes on her she could not lie, he would have the truth from her in moments. With a flood of relief she knew that she need not lie to him at all. She said, “I saw Orain last in Caer Bonn, when he brought Caryl -Dom Carolin - to the hostel of the Sisterhood. And that was more than a tenday ago. I suppose by now he is with the Army.” And, though she tried, she could not keep from her mind the picture of the army passing at the end of the street, the banner of the Hasturs, blue and silver, and Orain riding at the side of the unseen king. Lyondri would not consider him king but usurper….

I have made promises I could not keep … I knew not what manner of man I served, that I have become Rakhal’s hangman and hard hand … and with shock, Romilly realized that she was actually receiving this thin trickle of thoughts from the man before her; or was this true at all, was she simply reading him as she read animals, in the infinitesimal movements of eyes and body, and somehow co-ordinating them with his thoughts? She was acutely uncomfortable with the contact and relieved when it stopped abruptly, as if Lyondri Hastur had realized what was happening and closed it down.

I have read thoughts, more or less, much of my life, why should it disturb and confuse me now?

The Hastur-lord said with quiet formality, “I owe you a reward for your care of my son. I will grant anything save for weapons which might be used against me in this unjust war. State what you wish for his ransom, with that one exception.”

Jandria had prepared her for this. She said firmly, “I was to ask for three sacks filled with medical supplies for the hostels of the sisterhood; bandage-linen, the jelly which helps the clotting of blood, and karalla powder.”

“I suppose I could call those weapons, since no doubt they will be used to aid those wounded in rebellion against their king,” Lyondri Hastur mused aloud, then shrugged. “You shall have them,” he said, “I will give my steward the orders, and a pack-animal to take them back to your camp.”

Romilly drew a soft sigh of relief. She was not to be imprisoned, then, or held hostage.

“Did you believe that of me?” asked Lyondri Hastur aloud, dryly, then gave a short, sharp laugh. She saw it in his mind again, two telepaths could not lie to one another. She was fortunate that he did not wish his son disillusioned about his honor.

Romilly found herself suddenly very grateful that she had not encountered Lyondri Hastur when Caryl was not by, and when he did not wish to keep his son’s admiration.

“But, father,” Caryl said, “This is the woman with the hawk, who let me fly her - can I have a hawk of my own? And one day, I wish Mistress Romilly to be my hawkmistress.”

Lyondri Hastur smiled; it was a dry, distant smile, but nevertheless, a smile, and even more frightening than his laugh. He said, “Well, Swordswoman, my son has taken a fancy to you. There are members of the Sisterhood in my employment. If you would care to stay here and instruct Carolin in the art of falconry-“

She wanted nothing more than to get away. Much as she liked Caryl, she had never met anyone who so terrified her as this dry, harsh man with the cold laughter and hooded eyes. Grasping for an honorable excuse, she said, “I am - I am pledged elsewhere, vai dom.”

He bowed slightly, acknowledging the excuse. He knew it was an excuse, he knew what she thought him, and he knew she knew. He said, “As you wish, mestra. Carolin, say goodbye to your friend and go to greet your mother.”

He came and gave her his hand in the most formal way. Then, impulsively, he hugged her. He said, looking up to her with earnest eyes, “Maybe when this war is over I will see you again, Romilly - and your hawk. Give Preciosa my greetings.” Then he bowed as if to a lady at court, and left the room quickly, but she had seen the first traces of tears in his eyes. He did not want to cry in front of his father; she knew it.

Lyondri Hastur coughed. He said, “Your pack-animal and the medical supplies will be brought to you at the side door, near the stable. The steward will show you the way,” and she knew that the audience with the Hastur-lord was over. He gestured to the functionary, who came and said softly, “This way, mestra.”

Romilly bowed and said, “Thank you, sir.”

She turned, but as she was about to follow the steward, Lyondri Hastur coughed again.

“Mistress Romilly-?”

“Vai dom?”

‘Tell Jandria I am not quite the monster she fears. Not quite. That will be all.”

And as she left the room, Romilly wondered, shaking to her very toenails, what else does this man know?

CHAPTER THREE

When Romilly delivered the message from Lyondri Hastur to Janni - “Tell her I am not the monster she thinks me, not quite,” Jandria said nothing for a long time. Romilly sensed, from her stillness, (although she made a deliberate effort, her first, not to use her laran at all) that Jandria had several things she would have said; but not to Romilly. Then, at last, she said, “And he gave you the medical supplies?”

“He did; and a pack animal to carry them.”

Janni went and looked them over, saying at last, tight-lipped, “He was generous. Whatever Lyondri Hastur’s faults, niggardliness was never one of them. I should return the pack animal - I want no favors from Lyondri - but the sober truth is that we need it. And it is less to him than buying his son a packet of sweets in the market; I need suffer no qualms of conscience about that.” She sent for three of the women to look over the medical supplies, and told Romilly she might return to her horses. As an afterthought, as Romilly was going out the door, she called her back for a moment and said, “Thank you, chiya. I sent you on a difficult and dangerous mission, where I had no right at all to send you, and you carried it off as well as any diplomatic courier could have done. Perhaps I should find work better suited to you than working with the dumb beasts.”

Romilly thought; I would rather work with horses than go on diplomatic missions, any day! After a minute or two she said so, and Jandria, smiling, said, “Then I will not keep you

from the work I know you love. Go back to the bones, my dear. But you have my thanks.”

Freed, Romilly went back to the paddock and led out the horse she was beginning to break to the saddle. But she had not been at the work very long when Mhari came out to her.

“Romy,” she said, “saddle your own horse and two pack animals, at once, and Jandria’s riding-horse. She is leaving the hostel tonight, and says you must go with her.”

Romilly stared, with one hand absent-mindedly quieting the nervous horse, who did not at all like the blanket strapped to his back. “To leave tonight? Why?”

“As for that, you must ask Janni herself,” said Mhari, a little sullenly, “I would be glad to go wherever she would take me, but she has chosen you instead, and she bade me make up a packet of your clothes, and four days journey-rations too.”

Romilly frowned with irritation; she was just beginning to make some progress in gentling this horse, and must she interrupt the work already? She was sworn to the Sisterhood, but must that put her at the mercy of some woman’s whim? Nevertheless she liked Jandria very much, and was not inclined to argue with her decisions. She shrugged, changed the long lunge-line for a short leading-rope and took the horse back into the stable.

She had finished saddling Jandria’s horse, and was just putting a saddle-blanket on her own, when Jandria, cloaked and booted for riding, came into the stable. Romilly noticed, with shock, that her eyes were reddened as if she had been crying; but she only asked “Where are we going, Janni? And why?”