Hawkmistress! A DARKOVER NOVEL
by Marion Zimmer Bradley
Hawkmistress! A DARKOVER NOVEL
by Marion Zimmer Bradley
CONTENTS
Book One: FALCONSWARD, in the Kilghard Hills
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
Book Two: THE FUGITIVE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
Book Three: SWORDSWOMAN
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
Book One: FALCONSWARD, in the Kilghard Hills
CHAPTER ONE
Romilly was so weary that she could hardly stand on her feet.
It was dark in the mews, with no light but a carefully shielded lantern hanging from one rafter; but the eyes of the hawk were as bright, as untamed and filled with rage as ever. No, Romilly reminded herself; not rage alone, but terror.
She is afraid. She does not hate me; she is only afraid.
She could feel it all inside herself, that terror which pounded behind the rage, until she hardly knew which was herself-weary, her eyes burning, ready to fall into the dirty straw in an exhausted heap-and what was flooding into her mind from the brain of the hawk; hatred, fear, a wild frenzy of hunger for blood and for freedom.
Even as Romilly pulled the small sharp knife from her belt, and carefully cut a piece from the carcass placed conveniently near, she was shaking with the effort not to strike out, to pull away in a frenzy from the strap that held her-no, not her, held the hawk-to the falcon-block; merciless leathers, cutting her feet-
The hawk bated, wings flapping and thrashing, and Romilly jerked, with a convulsive reflex action, and the strip of raw meat fell into the straw. Romilly felt the struggle inside herself, the fury and frenzy of terror, as if the leather lines holding the big bird to the block were tying her too, cutting into her feet in agony . . . she tried to bend, to search for the meat calmly, but the emotions of the hawk, flooding into her mind, were too much for her. She flung her hands over her eyes and moaned aloud, letting it all become part of her, the crashing frenzy of wings, beating, beating . . . once, the first time this had happened to her, more than a year ago, she had run out of the mews in panic, running and running until she stumbled and skidded and fell, a hand’s breadth from the edges of the crags that tumbled down from Castle Falconsward to the very rocks of the Kadarin far below.
She must not let it go so deep into her mind, she must remember that she was human, was Romilly MacAran . . . she forced her breathing back to calm, remembering the words of the young leronis who had talked with her, briefly and in secret, before returning to Tramontana Tower.
You have a rare gift, child-one of the rarest of the gifts called laran. I do not know why your father is so bitter, why he will not let you and your sister and brothers be tested and trained to the use of these gifts-surely he must know that an untrained telepath is a menace to herself and to everyone around her; he himself has the gift in full measure!
Romilly knew; and she suspected the leronis knew, too, but out of loyalty to her father she would not speak of it outside the family, and the leronis was a stranger, after all; the MacAran had given her hospitality, as with any guest, but had coldly refused the purpose of the woman’s visit, to test the children of Falconsward for laran gifts.
“You are my guest, Domna Marelie, but I have lost one son to the accursed Towers which blight our land and lure the sons of honest men-aye, and their daughters too-from home and family loyalties! You may shelter beneath this roof while the storm lasts, and have all that belongs to a guest in honor; but keep your prying hands from the minds of my children!”
Lost one son to the accursed Towers, Romilly thought, remembering her brother Ruyven who had fled to Neskaya Tower, across the Kadarin, four years ago. And like to lose another, for even I can see that Darren is more fit for the Tower or the monastery of Nevarsin, than for the Heirship to Falconsward. Darren would have been still in Nevarsin, as custom demanded of a nobleman’s son in the hill country, and had wished to remain; but, obedient to their father’s will, returned to his duties as the Hen.