For an instant, one more time, it seemed that the bird was about to explode into a last frenzy of bating, and Romilly felt the sickness of failure . . . but this time the hawk bent her head and with a thrust so swift that Romilly could not follow it with her eyes, stabbed with the strong beak, so hard that Romilly staggered under the killing thrust. Blood spurted; the hawk pecked one more time and began to eat.
Romilly sobbed aloud through the flooding ecstasy of strength filling her as she felt the bird tear, swallow, tear again at the fresh meat. “Oh, you beauty,” she whispered, “You beauty, you precious, you wonder!”
When the hawk had fed … she could feel the dulling of hunger, and even her own thirst receded . .. she set it on the block again, and slipped a hood over Preciosa’s head. Now it would sleep, and wake remembering where its food came from. She must leave orders that food for this hawk must be very fresh; she would have birds or mice killed freshly for it until Preciosa could hunt for herself. It would not be long. It was an intelligent bird, or it would not have struggled so long; Romilly, still lightly in link with the bird, knew that now Preciosa would recognize her as the source of food, and that one day they would hunt together.
Her arm felt as if it would fall off; she slipped off the heavy gauntlet, and wiped her forehead with a sweaty arm. She could clearly see light outside the hawk-house; she had stood there all night. And as she took conscious note of the light – soon the household would be stirring – she saw her father and Davin standing in the doorway.
“Mistress Romilly! Have you been here all night?” Davin asked, shocked and concerned.
But her father’s temples were swollen with rage.
“You wretched girl, I ordered you back to the house! Do you think I am going to let you defy me like this? Come out of there and leave the hawk-”
“The hawk has fed,” said Romilly, “I saved her for you. Doesn’t that mean anything?” And then all her fury flooded through her again, and like a bating hawk, she exploded. “Beat me if you want to – if it’s more important to you that I should act like a lady and let a harmless bird die! If that is being a lady, I hope I shall never be one! I have the laran-” in her anger she used the word without thinking, “and I don’t think the gods make mistakes; it must mean that I am meant to use it! It isn’t my fault that I have the MacAran Gift when my brother doesn’t, but it was given to me so that now I didn’t have to stand by and let Preciosa die. . . .” and she stopped, swallowing back sobs that threatened to choke her voice entirely.
“She’s right, sir,” said old Davin slowly. “She’s not the first lady of MacAran to have the Gift, and, be the gods willing, she won’t be the last.”
The MacAran glared; but he stepped forward, took up a feather, and gently stroked the breast of the drowsing hawk. “A beautiful bird,” he said, at last “What did you call her? Preciosa? A good name, too. You have done well, daughter.” It was wrenched out of him, unwilling; then he scowled, and it was like the flood of fury flooding through the hawk.
“Get you gone from here, inside the house, and have a bath and fresh clothes – I will not have you filthy as a stable wench! Go and call your maid, and don’t let me see you beyond the house door again!” And as she slipped past him she could feel that blow he started to give her, then held back – he could not bring himself to strike anything, and she had saved the life of the hawk. But out of his rage of frustration he shouted after her at the top of his lungs, “You haven’t heard the last of this, damn you, Romilly!”