She lifted her eyes from that unexplainable symbol and stared straight into the yellow-sparked ones of the Falconer. Perhaps he and his fellows believed all women liars and worse. She might not be able to prove the truth of what she said. Let him go then. But she was Hawkholme, and she could prove it when the time came.
4
They had searched the dead man. There was nothing about him that could not have been worn or carried by any blank shield riding out of Estcarp on some private errand. His wounds, the Falconer declared, were not from steel or edged weapons but were caused by tooth and talon. To Tirtha’s surprise, the dead man had no weapons. There was a sword belt, to be sure, but the scabbard it supported was empty, as were all dart clip loops. He certainly had not ventured into this high, dangerous land bare-handed. Had he been stripped after death? If so, how had the looter passed the Torgian? And what enemy had traveled with a fanged and clawed hunter?
The mount snorted and pawed the turf at intervals, even though it kept its distance. Attached to its light saddle hung a pair of travel bags. It was to those Tirtha turned her attention next. If the Torgian would allow her to free them, they might just learn more of the dead.
He had lain there for some time, the Falconer averred, judging from the post-death stiffness of the corpse. Oddly enough, except for the clouds of flies, he had not been preyed upon by any scavengers, such as gathered elsewhere, no doubt because of the Torgian.
Since they had no tools, the Falconer used his sword to hack at the turf, loosening clods which Tirtha broke away and piled to one side. The grave they so dug was a shallow one, but they did the best they could. When they laid him in it, the girl brought forth a square scarf, such as she used in bad weather to cover her head under the folding of her hood, to lay over his face. She helped repile the clods of turf, then brought stones from the brook edge to add cover. When they had done, she arose from her knees, regarding broodingly the mound they had raised.
Tongue tip swept across her lower lip as she found words. They were not those formal ones she had heard said many times when she was not yet woman grown, but they were the best she could summon at this hour:
“May your sleep be sweet, stranger, may your path beyond be smooth, may you come to your desiring and it give you peace.” She stooped, picked up one white stone that was nearly round, fashioned so, she thought, by water’s rolling, and which she had laid aside for this purpose. As if she were indeed kin-blood and close kin, she placed this above the hidden head of the dead man. It bore no symbol of the old Power, nor could she breathe into it any spell of releasing. But through the last hard years, Tirtha had come to believe that such formalities were intended to lighten a little the grief of kin left behind rather than touch one who had already taken the Long Road and who, perhaps, had already forgotten this world, impatient for what lay beyond.
She knew nothing of what the Falconers believed concerning this life or what lay beyond it, but now she saw her companion take his sword, holding it by the blade, its hilt high. Then he turned the length of steel so that the hilt, as he moved his arm, traveled down the length of the grave while he chanted, in a voice hardly above a harsh whisper, words that held no meaning for her.
Afterward they looked to the horse. It would seem that the sealing of its master into the earth had, in an odd way, broken the anger that had made it so wary and wild. It had wandered away, and was now cropping grass awkwardly, the bit in its mouth manifestly bothering it. Slowly, with care, Tirtha approached, stopping short when it lifted its head to stare at her.
There was no longer any emanation of fear or hatred. She went ahead coolly, lifted the two saddle bags from their place while the Falconer busied himself with the horse itself, stripping off saddle and bridle, rubbing down the rough coat on which there were matted splotches of dried blood.
Within the bags were a packet of trail bread, another of dried meat, both very meager, a twist of coarse woven stuff which contained a mass of dried huk-berries squeezed into an uneven ball. Below those was a flask, battered, with its intricate plating scratched and dented. Tirtha forced the stopper out and sniffed the odor of the fiery corn spirit which could not only inwardly warm a man in the cold, but was equally useful for treating wounds so that they did not mortify.
Turning the flask around, she studied the style of ornamentation. It was Old Race work plain enough, and indeed out of Karsten, from the aged look of it.
However, there was no particular part of its patterning which made it unique—no crest on this anyway.
The other bag yielded a shirt, which had been poorly washed and then rough dried, creased into as small a role as possible. There was a honing stone and a small amount of oil for the tending of any edged weapons, though the dead man had not managed to keep his. But, last of all, there was a tight-capped cylinder about the length of her palm—also old metal—with only faint traces of some engraving to be detected along its sides. Such she had seen once or twice. They were fashioned to protect parchments, which were precious things—records to which hold-lords and songsmiths clung.
Each had a trick to the opening of the cap. It could not be forced lest it and perhaps its contents be destroyed. She turned it around now, its smooth surface slipping in her grasp as if oiled. This might be the answer to their mystery—to her mystery. But as yet she was in no hurry to pursue it. Tirtha sat back on her heels as the Falconer loomed over her, looking down at the result of her rummaging. She knew that his attention centered on the thing she held, so she made no attempt to belittle her discovery. “It is a record holder—very old.”
He could see that much for himself. Though she did not in the least want to let the thing out of her hands, Tirtha held it out to him as if her own curiosity was only nominal. Since the sighting of that badge-crest she well knew that he must believe she kept more than one secret, and she had no wish to add to his suspicions.
“Open it!”
That was an order and she stiffened. She was right, his suspicions were aroused. Had he some idea that she had come into these mountains perhaps to meet with the dead man? But she owed him no explanations. When he took sword oath for a stated time, he must serve her in everything save that which would dim his own honor as a warrior. What stood between them now was the aversion of his race toward any female, their refusal to accept that a woman had truth in her. She had heard enough of the Falconers in Estcarp to be aware of their belief and what it had cost them.
“If you know anything of these”—she gestured to the rod he now held—“you also know that they are sealed secretly and that only those who carry such and perhaps their close kin—or a sword brother, a shield mate—know the trick of the fastening. This man was no kin to me—I cannot loose his secrets.”
It might become necessary to try, at some point, Tirtha thought, even if it meant destroying the container. Though again that could well threaten any contents. She wanted very much to know who the stranger was, why he rode these mountains. Had he also been headed for Karsten? Would it advance her case with this other, whose distrust now appeared so tangible that she could feel it, if she were to tell more of her story? She shrank from such a self-betrayal. Her quest was hers alone, a precious thing to be doubly guarded because, if she told the story properly, he might well consider it either part of an hallucination spun for some dark purpose or think it the dreaming of a stupid woman, such as he was already certain she must be.
He was inspecting the faint line of cleavage at the top of the rod closely. Certainly there was no lock or fastening here. Now his eyes sought hers again through the helm slits.