She should get back to her horse. She glanced up again. Strange. The hawk still hovered. She wondered, on wild surmise, if it could be the same hawk … no. It was just that hawks were plentiful in these hills and wherever you cast your eyes on the sky, there was sure to be some kind of bird of prey within sight. For an instant it seemed as if she hovered, seeing the white pinnacle of the Tower and a faint blue lightning that struck from within … she felt faint and dizzy, not knowing whether it was the hawk or herself that saw … she shook herself and pulled out of the rapport. It would be all too easy to lose herself in that communion with sky and wind and cloud….
She went back to her horse and painstakingly saddled him again. At least the animal was fed. She said aloud, “I almost wish I could eat grass as you do, old fellow,” and was startled at the sound of her own voice.
It was answered by another sound; the high, shrill crying of a striking hawk – yes, the hawk had found some prey, for she could feel, somewhere in her mind, the flow of warm blood, a sensation that made her mouth tickle and flood with saliva, reawakening fierce hunger. The horse startled nervously away, and she pulled on the reins, speaking softly – and then dark pinions swooped across her vision. Without thought she thrust out her arm, felt the cruel grip of talons, and fell blindly into the familiar rapport.
“Preciosa!” She was sobbing as she spoke the name. How, why the hawk had followed her through her wandering, she would never know. The shrill cry and the flapping wings roused her from her tears and she was aware that there was a good-sized bird, still warm, gripped in the bird’s claws. With one hand she gripped the bird’s legs, lifting the claw away from her wrist – it was bleeding a little where the claws had cut, it was her own fault, for she had no proper glove. She set the bird on the saddle, her heart pounding, and pulled out her dagger; gave head and wings to Preciosa, and while the hawk fed – praise to the Bearer of Burdens, the horse knew enough to stand quietly when his saddle was made into an impromptu perch – she plucked what was left of the carcass, struck flint and steel and made a small fire where she roasted the carcass.
She came to me when I was hungry. She knew. She brought me food, giving up her own freedom. The jesses were still clinging to Preciosa’s legs. Romilly cut them free with her dagger.
If she wants to stay with me now it shall be of her free will. Never again will I bind her with any mark of ownership. She belongs to herself. But her eyes were still flooding with tears. She met the hawk’s eyes, and suddenly awareness leaped between hawk and girl, a strange, fierce emotion flooding her – not love as she knew it, but pure emotion, almost jealousy. She is not my hawk. I am her girl, Romilly thought, she has adopted me, not the other way round!
The hawk did not stir when she moved toward it; balancing a little by shifting her weight from foot to foot, she stared motionless into Romilly’s eyes; then gave a little upward hop and alighted on her shoulder. Romilly caught her breath with the pain as the talons tightened on her flesh, even through tunic and cloak, and immediately the grip slackened, so that Preciosa was holding her just tightly enough to keep her balance.
“You beauty, you wonder, you marvel,” Romilly whispered, while the hawk craned her neck and preened the set of her feathers.
Never have I known of such a thing as this, that a hawk once set free should return. . . . and Romilly supposed it was the mark of her laran which had brought her close to the hawk.
She stayed quiet, in that wordless communion, for what seemed a long time, while Romilly finished the roasted meat, covered the fire and resaddled the horse; her hands moved automatically about her tasks, but her eyes kept coming back and her mind dropping into silent closeness to the bird.