Hawkmistress! (2 page)

It had been his own loss; Romilly’s grandfather was known from the Kadarin to the Sea of Dalereuth as the finest man with hawks in the Kilghard Hills, and he had taught all his arts to Mikhail, now The MacAran, and to his commoner cousin Davin Hawkmaster. Verrin hawks, taken full-grown in the wild, were more stubborn than hatchlings reared to handling; a bird caught wild might let itself starve before it would take food from the hand, and better it should fly free to hatch others of the same fine breed, than die of fear and hunger in the mews, untamed.

So Romilly, with regret, had taken the larger of the birds from the mews, and slipped the jesses from the leathery skin of the leg; and, behind the stables, had climbed to a high rock and let her fly free. Her eyes had blurred with tears as she watched the falcon climb out of sight, and deep within her, something had flown with the hawk, in the wild ecstasy of rising, spiraling, free, free … for an instant Romilly had seen the dizzying panorama of Castle Falconsward lying below, deep ravines filled to the brim with forest, and far away a white shape, glimmering, that she knew to be Hali Tower on the shores of the Lake … was her brother there, even now? … and then she was alone again, shivering with the cold on the high rock, and her eyes were dazzled from staring into the light, and the hawk was gone.

She had returned to the mews, and her hand was already outstretched to take the other one and free it as well, but then the hawk’s eyes had met her own for a moment, and there had been an instant when she knew, a strong and dizzying knowledge within her, I can tame this one, I need not let her go, I can master her.

The fever which had come to the castle and struck down Davin was almost her friend. On any ordinary day, Romilly would have had duties and lessons; but the governess she shared with her younger sister Mallina had a touch of the fever, too, and was shivering beside the fire in the schoolroom, having given Romilly permission to go to the stables and ride, or take her lesson-book or her needlework to the conservatory high in the castle, and study there among the leaves and flowers-the light still hurt Domna Calinda’s eyes. Old Gwennis, who had been Romilly’s nurse when she and her sister were little children, was busy with Mallina, who had a touch of fever, though she was not dangerously ill. And the Lady Luciella, their stepmother, would not stir from the side of nine-year-old Rael, for he had the fever in its most dangerous form, the debilitating sweats and inability to swallow.

So Romilly had promised herself a delicious day of freedom in stables and hawk-house-was Domna Calinda really enough of a fool to think she would spend a day free of lessons over her stupid lesson-book or needlework? But she had found Davin, too, sick of the fever, and he had welcomed her coming-his apprentice was not yet skilled enough to go near the untrained birds, though he was good enough to feed the others and clean the mews-and so he had ordered Romilly to release them both. And she had started to obey.

But this hawk was hers! Never mind that it sat on its block, angry and sullen, red eyes veiled with rage and terror, bating wildly at the slightest movement near her, the wings exploding in the wild frenzy of flapping and thrashing; it was hers, and soon or late, it would know of the bond between them.

But she had known it would be neither quick nor easy. She had reared eyasses-young birds hatched in the mews or captured still helpless, accustomed before they were feathered to feed from a hand or glove. But this hawk had learned to fly, to hunt and feed itself in the wild; they were better hunters than hawks reared in captivity, but harder to tame; two out of five such birds, more or less, would let themselves die of hunger before they would feed. The thought that this could happen to her hawk was a dread Romilly refused to face. Somehow, she would, she must bridge the gulf between them.

The falcon bated again, thrashing furious wings, and Romilly struggled to maintain the sense of herself, not merging into the terror and fury of the angry bird, at the same time trying to send out waves of calm. I will not hurt you, lovely one. See, here is food. But it ignored the signal, flapping angrily, and Romilly struggled hard not to shrink back in terror, not to be overcome with the flooding, surging waves of rage and terror she could feel radiating from the chained bird.

Surely, this time, the beating wings had flapped into quiet sooner than before? The falcon was tiring. Was it growing weaker, would it fight its way down into death and exhaustion before it was ready to surrender and feed from the gauntlet? Romilly had lost track of time, but as the hawk quieted and her brain cleared, so that she knew again that she was Romilly and not the frenzied bird, her breathing quieted again and she let the gauntlet slip for a moment from her hand. Her wrist and shoulder felt as if they were going to drop off, but she was not sure whether it was because the gauntlet was too heavy for her, (she had spent hours holding it at arm’s length, enduring the pain of cramped muscles and tension, to accustom herself to its weight) or whether it had something to do with the frenzied beating of her wings … no. No, she must remember which was herself, which the hawk. She leaned back against the rough wall behind her, half-closing her eyes. She was almost asleep on her feet. But she must not sleep, nor move.

You don’t leave a hawk at this stage, Davin had told her. Not for a moment. She remembered asking, when she was small, not even to eat? And he had snorted, “If it comes to that, you can go without food and water longer than a hawk can; if you can’t out-wait a hawk you’re taming, you have no business around one.”

But he had been speaking of himself. It had not occurred to him, then, that a girl could tame a hawk or wish to. He had indulged her wish to learn all the arts of the falconer- after all, the birds might one day be hers, even though she had two older brothers; it would not be the first time Falconsward had passed down through the female line, from a strong husband to the woman heir. Nor was it unknown for a woman to ride out, with a docile and well-trained bird; even Romilly’s stepmother had been known to ride forth, a delicately trained bird, no larger than a pigeon, adorning her wrist like a rare jewel. Although Luciella would never have touched one of the verrin hawks, and the thought that her stepdaughter would wish to do so had never entered her mind.

But why not? Romilly asked herself in a rage. I was born with the MacAran Gift; the laran which would give me mastery over hawk or horse or hound. Not laran, I will never admit that I have that evil curse of the Hastur-kinfolk; but the ancient Gift of the MacArans … I have a right to that, it is not laran, not really… . I may be a woman, but I am as much a MacAran as my brothers!

Again she stepped toward the hawk, the meat extended on the gauntlet, but the hawk thrust up its head and the beady eyes stared coldly at Romilly; it moved away, with a little hop, as far away as the dimensions of the block allowed. She could sense that the jesses were no longer giving it pain. She murmured small sounds of reassurance, and her own hunger came surging up inside her. She should have brought some food in her pocket for herself, she had seen Davin, often enough, thrust cold meats and bread into his pouch so that he could munch on something while he waited out the long stay with a hawk. If only she could sneak away for a moment to the kitchen or pantry-and to the privy, too; her bladder ached with tension. Her father or brothers could have stepped away, turned aside for a moment, undone breeches and relieved themselves against the wall, but Romilly, though she contemplated it for a moment, would have had too many strings and fastenings to undo, even though she was wearing a pair of Ruyven’s old breeches. But she sighed, staying where she was.

If you can’t wait out a hawk, Davin had said, you have no business around one. That was the only real disadvantage she could think of for a girl, around the stables, and this was the first time it had been any real disadvantage for her.

You’re hungry too, she said silently to the hawk, come on, here’s food, just because I’m hungry doesn’t mean you can’t eat, you stubborn thing, you! But the hawk made no move to touch the food. It moved a little, and for a moment Romilly feared it would explode into another of those wild bursts of bating. But it stayed still, and after a moment she relaxed into the motionless quiet of her vigil.

When my brothers were my age, it was taken for granted-a MacAran son should train his own hound, his own horse, his own hawk. Even Rael, he is only nine, but already Father insists he shall teach his dogs manners. When she had been younger-before Ruyven had left them, before Darren was sent to Nevarsin-her father had been proud to let Romilly work with horses and hounds.

He used to say; Romilly’s a MacAran, she has the Gift; there’s no horse she can’t ride, no dog she can’t make friends with, the very bitches come and whelp in her lap. He was proud of me. He used to tell Ruyven and Darren that I would be a better MacAran than either of them, tell them to watch my way with a horse.

But now-now it makes him angry.

Since Ruyven had gone, Romilly had been sternly turned over to her stepmother, expected to stay indoors, to “behave like a lady.” She was now almost fifteen; her younger sister Mallina had already begun dressing her hair with a woman’s butterfly-clasp, Mallina was content to sit and learn embroidery stitches, to ride decorously in a lady’s saddle, to play with little stupid lap-dogs instead of the sensible herding-dogs and working-dogs around the pastures and stables. Mallina had grown into a fool, and the dreadful thing was that their father preferred her as a fool and wished audibly that Romilly would emulate her.

Never. I’d rather be dead than stay inside the house all the time and stitch like a lady. Mallina used to ride well, and now she’s like Luciella, soft and flabby, she startles away when a horse moves its head near her, she couldn’t ride for half an hour at a good gallop without falling off gasping like a fish in a tree, and now, like Luciella, she simpers and twitters, and the worst thing is, Father likes them that way!

There was a little stir at the far end of the hawk-house, and one of the eyasses there screamed, the wild screaming sound of an untrained fledgling that scents food. The sound sent Romilly’s hawk into a wild explosion of bating, and Romilly, one with the mad flapping of wings, the fierce hunger gripping like claws in her belly, knew that the hawkmaster’s boy had come into the hawk-house to feed the other birds. He went from one to another, slowly, muttering to them, and Romilly knew it was near sunset; she had been there since mid-morning. He finished his work and raised his head to see her.

“Mistress Romilly! What are you doing here, damisela?”

At his voice the hawk bated again, and Romilly felt again the dreadful ache, as if her hands and arms would drop off into the straw. She struggled to keep herself free of frenzy, fear, anger, blood-lust-blood bursting forth, exploding into her mouth under tearing beak and talons … and forced herself to the low tone that would not further terrify the frenzied bird.

“I am manning this hawk. Go away, Ker, your work is finished and you will frighten her.”

“But I heard Davin say the hawk’s to be released, and The MacAran’s in a rage about it,” Ker mumbled. “He didna’ want to lose the verrin birds, and he’s threatened Davin wi’ being turned off, old man that he is, if he loses them-“

“Well, Father’s not going to lose this one, unless you frighten her out of her senses,” Romilly said crisply, “Go away, Ker, before she bates again-” for she could feel the trembling build in the bird’s body and mind, she felt if that flapping frenzy exploded again she would collapse with exhaustion, scream herself in fury and frustration. It made her voice sharp. “Go away!”

Her own agitation communicated itself to the bird; it burst into the frenzied flapping of wings again, surges of hatred and terror coming and going, threatening to drown all her own awareness and identity. She fought it, silently, trying to cling to calm, to send out calm to the terrified bird. There, there, lovely one, no one shall harm you, see, here is food , . . and when she knew who or where she was again, the boy had gone.

He had left the door open, and there was a draught of cold air from the evening mists; and soon the night’s rain or snow would start to fall-damn the wretch! She stole for a few seconds on tiptoe away from the block to draw the door closed-it would avail her nothing to tame this hawk if all the birds died with the cold! Once away from the bird’s side, she began to wonder what she was doing here and why. How was it that she thought that she, a young woman, could accomplish something at which even the skilled Davin failed two out of five times? She should have told the boy that the bird was at the end of exhaustion, have him come and take over … she had seen what he could do with a wild, raging, exhausted stallion from the wild herds of the ravines and outer hills. An hour, maybe two, with her father at one end of a lunge line and the stallion at the other, and he would come to the bridle, lower his big head and rub it against The MacAran’s chest… surely he could still save this bird, too. She was weary and cold and exhausted, she longed for the old days when she could climb into her father’s lap and tell him all her troubles….

Then the voice struck through to her, angry and cold-but there was tenderness in it too; the voice of Mikhail, lord of Falconsward, The MacAran.

“Romilly!” he said, shocked but compassionate, “Daughter, what do you think you are doing? This is no task for a maiden, manning a verrin hawk! I gave orders to that wretch Davin and he lies slack in bed while one hawk is mishandled by a child, and the other, I doubt not, starved on its block….”

Romilly could hardly speak through the tears threatening to surge up inside her and break her control.