Why cannot Father see that? She knew the thought was Darren’s, because of the bitterness. Then he was not head-blind? Or was his telepathy erratic, as hers had once been, coming only rarely and when she was deeply moved .. . her own had strengthened when she had begun working with the animals, but Darren had none of that gift…
So Preciosa was free, and it was all an illusion. She might as well sit quietly in the house and mind her stitchery for all it would profit her to hang about the hawk-house, trying like a man to work with the birds….
And then it seemed that her heart would stop. For through the infinite pain of loss, a thread of awareness stole, high flight, the world laid out beneath her like one of the maps in her schoolbooks, only colored and curiously sharp, with a sight stronger than her own, and little flickers of life coming from here, from there, small birds in flight, small animals in the grass….
Preciosa! The hawk was still in rapport, the hawk had not flown wild! Darren said something; she did not hear. She heard Alderic saying, “Don’t waste your voice, bredu, she cannot hear you. She is with the hawk….”
Romilly sat, with automatic habit, in the saddle, upright, silent, but the real part of her soared over the high pasture, keen with hunger, in the ecstasy of the flight. Supernaturally keen, her sight and senses, aware of the life of small birds, so that she felt she was smacking her lips and almost giggled and broke out of the rapport with the absurdity of it, sudden burning hunger and a desire almost sexual in its ferocity … down. Down on long soaring wings, the beak striking, blood bursting into her mouth, the sudden fierceness of bursting life and death….
Down. Wavering down. She had just enough of her selfhood left to hold out her fist rock-steady, under the sudden jarring stop of a heavy hawk laden with her kin. She felt tears streaming down her face, but there was no time for emotion; her knife was in her free hand as she cut the head away, thrust her portion, headless rabbit, into her wallet with the free hand; all her own awareness was feeding with the greedy hawk on her portion. Alderic had loosed his own hawk, but she did not know; she was weeping outright with love and relief as she slipped the hood on Preciosa’s head.
Preciosa had come back. She had returned of her free Will, out of freedom into bondage and the hood. She choked back her tears as she stroked the hawk with the feather, and knew her hands were shaking.
What have I done to deserve this? How can I possibly be worthy of it? That a wild thing should give up her freedom for me . . . what can I possibly do to make me worthy enough for that gift?
Later they ate the apples and sweets that Romilly had brought, before riding back, through the growing light, to Falconsward. As the young people came through the courtyard they saw strange horses being unsaddled there, one with the banners of Aldaran of Scathfell, and knew that the highest-born of the guests had arrived.
Alderic asked, anxiously, “Is it old lord Gareth still Lord of Scathfell?”
“He is not, my lord; Gareth of Scathfell is not more than forty-nine,” said Romilly. Alderic looked relieved, and Romilly intercepted a questioning look between Darren and Alderic. Alderic said shortly, “He might well know me by sight.”
“Do you not trust to the laws of-” Darren began, frowned in Romilly’s direction, and broke off, and Romilly, bending her head over her hawk, thought; what kind of fool do they think me? I would need be deaf, blind, dumb and head-blind as well, not to know he is allied in partisanship to Carolin in exile, perhaps the young prince himself. And I know as well as he why my father must get no word of it.
“True; Old Gareth died three winters gone, sir,” Darren said, “and was half-blind at that. Will all of the folk of Scathfell be here, Romilly?”