I have made promises I could not keep … I knew not what manner of man I served, that I have become Rakhal’s hangman and hard hand . . . and with shock, Romilly realized that she was actually receiving this thin trickle of thoughts from the man before her; or was this true at all, was she simply reading him as she read animals, in the infinitesimal movements of eyes and body, and somehow co-ordinating them with his thoughts? She was acutely uncomfortable with the contact and relieved when it stopped abruptly, as if Lyondri Hastur had realized what was happening and closed it down.
I have read thoughts, more or less, much of my life, why should it disturb and confuse me now?
The Hastur-lord said with quiet formality, “I owe you a reward for your care of my son. I will grant anything save for weapons which might be used against me in this unjust war. State what you wish for his ransom, with that one exception.”
Jandria had prepared her for this. She said firmly, “I was to ask for three sacks filled with medical supplies for the hostels of the sisterhood; bandage-linen, the jelly which helps the clotting of blood, and karalla powder.”
“I suppose I could call those weapons, since no doubt they will be used to aid those wounded in rebellion against their king,” Lyondri Hastur mused aloud, then shrugged. “You shall have them,” he said, “I will give my steward the orders, and a pack-animal to take them back to your camp.”
Romilly drew a soft sigh of relief. She was not to be imprisoned, then, or held hostage.
“Did you believe that of me?” asked Lyondri Hastur aloud, dryly, then gave a short, sharp laugh. She saw it in his mind again, two telepaths could not lie to one another. She was fortunate that he did not wish his son disillusioned about his honor.
Romilly found herself suddenly very grateful that she had not encountered Lyondri Hastur when Caryl was not by, and when he did not wish to keep his son’s admiration.
“But, father,” Caryl said, “This is the woman with the hawk, who let me fly her – can I have a hawk of my own? And one day, I wish Mistress Romilly to be my hawkmistress.”
Lyondri Hastur smiled; it was a dry, distant smile, but nevertheless, a smile, and even more frightening than his laugh. He said, “Well, Swordswoman, my son has taken a fancy to you. There are members of the Sisterhood in my employment. If you would care to stay here and instruct Carolin in the art of falconry-”
She wanted nothing more than to get away. Much as she liked Caryl, she had never met anyone who so terrified her as this dry, harsh man with the cold laughter and hooded eyes. Grasping for an honorable excuse, she said, “I am – I am pledged elsewhere, vai dom.”
He bowed slightly, acknowledging the excuse. He knew it was an excuse, he knew what she thought him, and he knew she knew. He said, “As you wish, mestra. Carolin, say goodbye to your friend and go to greet your mother.”
He came and gave her his hand in the most formal way. Then, impulsively, he hugged her. He said, looking up to her with earnest eyes, “Maybe when this war is over I will see you again, Romilly – and your hawk. Give Preciosa my greetings.” Then he bowed as if to a lady at court, and left the room quickly, but she had seen the first traces of tears in his eyes. He did not want to cry in front of his father; she knew it.
Lyondri Hastur coughed. He said, “Your pack-animal and the medical supplies will be brought to you at the side door, near the stable. The steward will show you the way,” and she knew that the audience with the Hastur-lord was over. He gestured to the functionary, who came and said softly, “This way, mestra.”
Romilly bowed and said, “Thank you, sir.”
She turned, but as she was about to follow the steward, Lyondri Hastur coughed again.
“Mistress Romilly-?”
“Vai dom?”