In and in! The body in her arms twisted in a quick convulsion, so she must tighten her hold to a near bruising grip in order to keep the entranced one steady. There came a thin cry! Of pain? Terror? Perhaps both.
Still the bird raised power, the Falconer fed, the gem blazed.
They sought—surely they could go no deeper lest they carry death with them, while the one who was so sealed away fled their seeking!
Again the small body arched in Tirtha’s arms. An invisible fist thudded against her breast, as the mewling cry grew stronger, so that she tried to feel for the mouth in a head that turned back and forth on her arm, to press her hand over it, to stifle any sound that might carry in these dangerous hills.
The gem pommel became so brilliant a ball that Tirtha dared not look directly at it. To whom had that belonged and what sorcery had gone into the forging of such a blade?
Then the falcon gave a croaking cry. Tirtha sensed that it was fast nearing the end of its strength. The body she held continued to struggle. She was able to sense now not just life, which had been near to the borderline of extinction, but overwhelming and terrible fear like a black cloud streaming upward about her to bemuse and stifle her own mind.
There was…
In her arms she held a child she could see. Its face was twisted, wrought into an ugly mask of terror so intense that perhaps sanity was lost. Tirtha drew on her healer’s comfort, strove to pour down and in the quiet confidence which was a large part of that talent. She made herself picture a wide meadow, bright and open under the sun, a sky untroubled by even the smallest cloud. And through that open land, where fear was unknown, the child she held—yes, now that she could see it she could mind-picture it—ran in happy delight.
Tirtha fought to hold, refine that vision, let it fill her mind and flow outward.
“Nothing to fear.” It was a growing rhythm, an unvoiced chant within her. “Safe—safe—no fear—safe.”
She was no longer aware of either bird or man, only of the pitiful creature she so held and tried to comfort.
“Safe—no fear—safe.”
The open meadow, the flowers she visioned growing to charm the eye with their color, to catch and hold even a most fleeting attention, the cloudless sky…
“Free—no fear.”
The child’s body, which had been stiff, taut, rigid in her hold, began to relax. Was this the relaxation of an outer covering of flesh that had been tried too far and too long—a withdrawal of life essence shocked out of its chosen hiding place? She could not tell.
“Safe—safe…” Tirtha strove to increase her flow of assurance, even as she would have with some injured animal, as she had times in the past tried so to heal or comfort.
Those eyes, which had been screwed so tightly shut, slowly opened. Dark gray they were, and with that in them which she recognized. This was blood of her people—the child was one of the Old Race.
The mouth, which had so shortly before shaped those woeful cries, opened a little. There came from between bitten lips, where flecks of dried blood had gathered in the corners to mark the small chin with a dribbled stain, a sigh.
Tirtha dared now to try to reach the child’s mind directly. It was free and it was still sane! She had hardly dared hope for that!
With a joyful cry of her own, she embraced her charge closely, crooning a wordless murmur of relief and thanksgiving. Then there shot into her own mind, so sharp and clear it might have been spoken aloud by the child, a touch her fumbling attempts could never have produced.
“Gerik!” Fear flamed with that name as a fire might rise when fresh wood is laid onto its blaze.
“There is no Gerik here.” She summoned words. To answer mind to mind was no skill of hers. “I am Tirtha and this…” For the first time she looked to the Falconer a little at a loss. She had never asked his name, knowing well that they did not yield such to those outside their own kind.
“I am Nirel, little brother,” he answered for himself, speaking to the child. There were runnels of sweat down his face, gathering in large drops to drip from his chin. He had sometime during that battle swept off his helm, so the child who turned his head could see him plainly.
Little brother? Yes, it was a boy she held, which surprised her. For so legendary was it that such power of illusion could only be summoned by a woman, Tirtha had been certain she had carried out of that carnage a small girl. He was young, but perhaps older than his size would suggest, and his body, hardly covered by a short, tattered shiftlike garment, was brown and wiry. The dark hair of the Old Race had a slight wave where one longer lock fell across his forehead, near touching his level brows. What looked out of his eyes, though, was nothing of a young child.
“I am Alon.” He spoke clearly. “I…” The shadow was back on his face, and his hands reached for the front of Tirtha’s jerkin, clasped it so tightly that his nails cut into the soft leather.
“Where—?” He had turned his head against her, hiding his face so that his words came muffled.
Tirtha chose to ignore what might be the true meaning of that question.
“We are in the hills,” she replied calmly.
His shoulders hunched a little as he gave one convulsive sob. He held to her for a long moment and then turned to look at both of them once more.
“They are all dead.” It was no question but a statement of fact, and Tirtha found that she could answer only with truth.
“We believe so.”
“They said they came from Lord Honnor; they showed his seal rod to Lamer, and so the gate was opened. Then he laughed and…”
Again that body convulsed and Tirtha answered with a tighter grip. But it was the Falconer who leaned forward and spoke.
“Little Brother, there will come a time for blood payment. Until then, look to the days ahead, not the hours behind.” Such words he might speak to one of his own kind and his own age. Tirtha felt a rising indignation. Did he believe that a small child could be so comforted, if comfort was what he intended by that somber advice.
Only it would appear that he was right, for Alon met him eye to eye. His small face wore an intent, serious look and there was almost the same communication between the two of them as existed between bird and man—one Tirtha could not even sense.
“You are a bird man,” the boy said slowly. “And he—?”
He loosed his hold on Tirtha, raised a thin arm to point to the falcon who now looked as if it wished to sleep, its yellow eyes half closed, its wings tight held to its body.
“In his own tongue he is called Wind Warrior. He is a flock chief and…”
“One of the Learning,” Alon said softly. He spoke directly to the bird.
“Brother in Feathers, you are a great fighter.”
The falcon unlidded its eyes, gazed down, uttered a single small and very soft sound deep in its throat.
Now Alon turned his head once more to look directly up into Tirtha’s face.
“You are—are like Yachne, no?” Again a shadow frown crossed his small face. “She has the Calling in her; you—you are different. But you are of the Blood.”
Tirtha nodded. “Of the Blood, but one born in another place, kin-brother. I am from overmountain.”
He had moved, not to free himself entirely from her hold, but rather to sit higher in it. She helped him so he could be more comfortable.
“Overmountain,” he repeated. “But there is evil…” He glanced up, then stared at her. “No—the Dark ones—one can feel those. You are not of the Dark, kin-sister. Are you from the east where there is the clouding? Yachne has tried to read the throwing stones many times, but always there is the Dark between. There are the prowlers who come down from the hills, but they are not like Gerik”—his lips met tightly together for an instant—“for Gerik is a man, and he has chosen to serve the Dark of his free will!”