Mercedes Lackey - Anthology (31 page)

 
          
The
school of salmon scattered, but came back the cool shadows as soon as their
brother's food had washed away downstream. Watching them, Imoh had an idea. He
could bring the mother eagle a gift to show his respect. He'd bring it to her
nest. She'd go there, if nowhere else, because she must continually return to
her young. If he came with food, she must see that he meant her and her family
no harm. Full of plans, he went to cook his breakfast.

 
          
The
second climb up the riverbank toward the nest was much easier, because he'd
already blazed his own path. This time he had to contend with a slippery,
smelly burden in a net made of woven willow branches on his back. He'd caught
several fine fish, a fitting gift for a holy guardian. But the gift attracted
other animals,
who
followed him avidly. It was easy to
chase off the small predators, but a young wildcat stalked him, threatening to
ruin his plan.

 
          
He
remonstrated with the wildcat, telling it he was not of its kind. The cat just
stared at him with its squared pupils, moving closer as Imoh edged away.

 
          
In
the end, he had to drop a fish on the ground. He left the cat to its prize, and
hurried away on hands and knees.

 
          
As
morning passed, the dead fish got warmer. Imoh could no longer smell the ground
or the greenery. There was something horrible in the way they felt, slithering
against his skin through the openings in the willow creel, He reached the top
for the second time, reeking of fish.

 
          
He
felt this time he must make a bolder gesture. Though his heart pounded in his
chest, nearly choking him, he got to his feet and shouldered his gift. With all
the strength of will and the knowledge that everyone at home would soon find
out if he failed, he stepped around the last outcropping to behold the huge
nest.

 
          
As
soon as he came into view, the dark-headed chicks began to clamor, partly out
of fear and partly out of curiosity. Here was a stranger—not mother—but he smelled
of good things to eat! Imoh studied them as they churned about in the nest
craning their skinny necks toward his creel. They were almost fledged. It
couldn't be long at all before they were ready to fly. Imoh stood tall, just
far enough away from the nest that wouldn't be construed a direct threat.
Holding up one fish as a lure, he scanned the trees that lined the river
valley. Here and there bare snags poked up gray fingers.

 
          
Imoh's
eyes were dazzled with sun. He knew the mother could see him at distances so
great she could be invisible to him. No, there against the black-green was the
white dot, the head of a Hands-and-face. Imoh waved his burden high in the air.
The distant dot lifted straight up from its ^rch. When it was clear of the
treetops, Imoh uld see the great white-tipped wings. It was
ming
at him, faster than it had stolen his din-r last night. He quailed, but stood
his ground til the last moment, when she was hovering t overhead.

 
          
Her
huge talons grabbed for the iish, but he dropped to the ground and rolled
toward the nest, trying to make her land there so she would be at eye level to
him. She grabbed the fish out of his hands and settled on the edge of the mass
of twigs and sticks to glare.

 
          
Bravely,
Imoh drew himself up and met her eyes. And felt nothing. His heart went hollow
in his chest. She was not the one! He could have cried with frustration. The
eagle dropped her fish, opened her mouth and screamed. Imoh backed off,
preparing to run for his life.

 
          
He
felt a tug on the creel in his other hand, and looked down. The four little
eaglets had clambered out of the next and bustled toward him with their
waddling gait, their hooked yellow beaks open, crying for the fish. His eye
still on the mother, he dropped the dusty mess and let them have it. They fell
upon it, peeping busily. He backed away another pace as the mother shrilled her
piercing war cry. As lightly as a cloth whisked from one spot to another, she
rose on her great brown wings and dipped down onto the ledge between him and
her children. She shrilled again, stopping Imoh's heart in his chest.

 
          
Go
away, the call said. Now!

 
          
Imoh
felt behind him for the outcrop of rock, keeping his eye on the mother.

 
          
Another
failure! Now he would have to go south, to the other great bird, and hope the
High Ones weren't playing tricks on him, that there was not a third place he
must hunt for his guardian. Must he follow the Tribe's trail clear south to
their summer home, trying to guess where he'd been conceived?

 
          
He
backed away. Just then, one of the eaglets peered underneath its mother's
feathered skirts and peeped. It blinked at him, its nut-brown eyes bright and
unafraid. Imoh stared at it, and suddenly understood it. He knew its
fierceness, its feeling of safety being with its mother, and its satisfaction
at having a full belly. It was a male, second of the four chicks to hatch.

 
          
Imoh
gasped, almost feeling tears come to his eyes. His guardian, his teacher, his
totem creature was an infant Hands-and-face! They bonded in an instant so brief
there was no time for Imoh to draw a single breath. He had only one chance to
blink at his sacred guide before the mother eagle, out of patience, launched
herself off the ledge at him.

 
          
Imoh
dodged and rolled, trying to avoid the outstretched talons. He plunged toward
the narrow neck of the path, worried about falling off the cliff. He caught
himself with one hand at the very edge of the rock, and wiggled hard to get
back under the bushes out of reach. The mother's talons tore through the thin twigs.
Imoh felt a hard claw catch in his skin and rake up his shoulder blade as he
shinnied back toward the slope. The white-hot pain was risked by the assault of
thousands of pine nee-s and broken branches ripping his skin from Dve and below
until he could get down to shelf in against the riverbank.

 
          
His
hair was hopeless now. It'd be years before he'd have the shining tails of hair
again that he'd been so proud of, but he had his guardian!

 
          
In
a short while, the mother eagle realized she couldn't reach him and gave up the
chase. After all, there were the remains of five fine fish in her nest.

 
          
Panting,
Imoh scrambled downhill, keeping himself invisible from above. Avoid the path,
he told himself, staying under the cover of the trees along the path. The
mother could come back, and if he was in open sky, she'd have no trouble seeing
him from many miles away. He was marked now, and not only on his back. He
turned his face toward home.

 
          
Inside
himself he felt the presence of the little bird, and if he concentrated he
could see what it was doing. At the moment it was enjoying fish, snatching
tidbits from its siblings and fussing for the best parts. He gave it a name,
Sky Claw, and knew that he would never tame it. He might also never see it
again, but they were bond brothers now until the end. They would gain strength
from one another's successes. The presence of his guardian would keep him from
harm. Thanks to Sky Claw, he was less afraid of eagles, but he had more respect
for them, as was fitting for one of his clan. And he would have the gift of
Sight. Did he? Imoh wondered.

 
          
He
thought of his mother, and suddenly, he could see her in the village, as if
through the eyes of someone near her. Imoh had to stop walking, lest he fall
over roots on a path he could no longer see. His mother was on her knees
pounding corn in a mortar for bread, and tossing in green herbs as she went.

 
          
Imoh
grinned. That was his favorite food. She was making it for him, already knowing
that he had succeeded at his quest. A true child of the Eagle, she had the
Sight, too.

 
          
Through
his new gift, Imoh witnessed the fledgling flight of Sky Claw an hour before
sunset on the day he reached the outposts of his village. A good omen for us
both, he thought, waving to the Wildcat clan warriors guarding the southern
approaches. He grinned at them, and knew how they saw him: dirty, bloodstained,
with torn shoes, pants and hair, but a man today. Today we both learned to fly.

 
          
Mercedes
Lackey was born in
Chicago
, and worked as a lab assistant, security guard, and computer programmer
before turning to fiction writing. Her first book, Arrows of the Queen, the
first in the Valdemar series, was published in 1985. She won the Lambda award
for Magic's Price and Science Fiction Book Club Book of the Year for the The
Elvenbane, co-authored with Andre Norton. Along with her husband, Larry Dixon,
she is a federally licensed bird rehabilitator, specializing in wild birds. She
shares her home with a menagerie of parrots, cats, and a Schutzhund trained
German shepherd. Recent novels include Werehunter and Black Swan.

 
          
Every
so often, a character takes over and demands that more attention be paid to him
(or her). This was my dilemma when writing The Black Swan; one of the
characters, a relatively minor spear-carrier, stood up and insisted that I go
into more detail about her. Now, the story was supposed to be about the
characters of
Swan
Lake
—there was no room there for a digression
about one of the Prince's bridal candidates.

 
          
Honoria
didn't care. She wanted her story told, and to Tophet with what I wanted.
Fortunately, since Honoria is a falconer, I had a place to tell it. So here it
is, and I hope you like it.

 
          
THE
shadowed interior of the mews, redolent with the musky aroma of hawk-mutes and
full of the restless energy of birds ready to be hunting, was an odd place to
find a princess, but Honoria never tired of introducing the intricacies of
falconry to devotees; she was always happy to create new worshipers at the
shrine of the mews. It troubled her not at all that most of the congregation
were male; she had encountered enough trouble in her own quest to become a
falconer that she would not care to visit such difficulty on any other female
unless she had the same degree of need for the birds that Honoria herself had.

 
          
Falconry—true
falconry, and not merely accepting a bird from your falconer and tossing it
into the air without pausing or a moment in conversation—was already difficult
enough without that added hardship. Young Bern, blue-eyed, blond-haired squire
to her brother, Sir Hakkon, watched Honoria as closely as ever he watched his
master. She had her favorite peregrine, Valeria, sitting calmly un-hooded on
her gloved hand, and
the jesses
from each of Valeria's
feet held ready to attach to the leash that would allow the bird to make a
short flight, called a bate, if she was startled, but not to escape. "And
see, this is how you make the knot at the end of the jess," she said, deftly
tying jesses and leash together in the falconer's knot, doing so one-handed and
with the aid of her teeth, much to the amazement of the young squire. The leash
was already tied off to the ring in her glove. "Now that you have the
falcon on your fist and secured, you can hood her."

 
          
She
slipped the beautifully crafted hood, ornamented with a Turk's Knot on top, out
of a side-pocket on her game bag. Fixing her gaze on her peregrine's eyes, and
making a little "pishing" sound to quiet her, she brought the hood up
to the falcon's breast, then popped it on her head in a single, swift motion.
Using hands and teeth, she tightened the braces at the back of the hood before
Valeria could shake her head to get it off. That was Valeria's latest trick,
and she was perfectly capable of playing it for an hour until she consented to
wear the hood.