She could not endure the sorrow in Caryl’s small face. She at least was a woman grown and could bear her own burden, but he was a child and should not have to. She broke in upon him, gently, asking, “Shall I call Preciosa from the sky to ride with you? I think she is lonely-” and as she whistled to the hawk, and set her upon Caryl’s saddle she was rewarded by seeing the unchildlike weight disappear from the childish face, so that he was only a boy again, gleefully watching a hawk fly to his hand.
“When this war is over, Romy, and the land is at peace again, shall I have you for my hawkmaster, and will you teach me all about training hawks? Or no, a girl cannot be a hawkmaster, can you? You will then be hawkmistress to me, one day?”
She said gently, “I do not know where any of us will be when this war is over, Caryl. It would be a pleasure to teach you what I know about hawks. But remember that much of what I know cannot be taught. You must find it somewhere within you, your heart and your laran-” and at the edge of her consciousness she realized that now she felt quite comfortable with that alien word-“to know the birds and to love them and to be aware of their ways.”
And she found it easy to believe that this small wise boy, with his sensitive awareness of men and beasts, the gravity of the monks among whom he had been reared and the charm of the Hastur-kin, would perhaps one day be king. It seemed for a moment that she could see the luminous glimmer of a corona about his reddish curls – and then she shut away the unwanted sight. She was learning fast, she reflected, to handle the Gift given to her, or to shut it away.
Was this how her father had learned to survive, outside a Tower, she wondered, by closing away all the laran he could not use in his work of training horses? And could she stand to shut away all this new part of herself? Could she bear to have it – or not to have it, now? It was a terrifying gift and bore its own penalties. No wonder, now, that there were old tales in the mountains of men driven mad when their laran came upon them….
And how could Caryl be a king? His father was no king but sworn liegeman to Dom Rakhal, and whether Rakhal won this war, or Carolin, Lyondri Hastur was no king. Or would he prove false to Rakhal as he had been false to Carolin, in the ambition to form a dynasty of his own blood?
“Romilly-Romy! Are you asleep riding there?” Caryl’s merry voice broke in on her thoughts. “May I see if Preciosa will fly for me? We should have some birds for supper – should we not?”
She smiled at the boy.
“If she will fly for you, you shall fly her,” she agreed, “though I cannot promise that she will fly for anyone but me. But you must ask Dame Jandria if we have need of birds for supper; she, not I, is in charge of this company.”
“I am sorry,” Caryl said, unrepentant, the words mere formality, “But it is hard to remember that she is a noblewoman, and it does not come naturally to me to remember to ask her, while when I am with you I am always aware that you are one of the Hastur-kind.”
“But I am not,” said Romilly, “and Janni is Lord Orain’s own cousin, if you did not know, so her blood is as good as mine.”
Suddenly Caryl looked scared. “I wish you had not told me that,” he blurted out, “for that makes her one of my father’s greatest enemies and I do not want him to hate her. . . .” Romilly berated herself; he looked stricken. She said quickly, “Rank has no meaning among the Sisterhood, and Jandria has renounced the privileges brought with noble both. And so have I, Caryl.” And she realized that he looked relieved, though she was not sure why.