Higher, higher… now, down the wind, and away, away … free on the wind, flying free and away. … a last quick sight of the country, spread out below her like a colored picture in one of Rael’s schoolbooks, then the frail link snapped asunder and she was alone again, alone in her own mind, her hands and heart empty, and only the shrill tiny screaming of the small hawk striking at some little rodent in the long grass, lifting-the bird lighted on her saddle. With automatic hands she tore at the small carcass, letting the hawk feed from her glove, but her heart was empty.
Preciosa. She is gone. Gone. Never again. . ..
Her father’s head was thrown back, scanning the sky where Preciosa had vanished. “She has gone long,” he said, “Romilly, do you usually let her fly out of sight?”
Romilly shook her head. The MacAran waited, frozen, and Darren’s head was thrown back, his mouth a round ‘O’ of dread. They waited. At last The MacAran said in a fury,
“You have lost her, damn your clumsiness! The best hawk in the mews, and the very first time you fly her, you have lost her, worthless son that you are, worthless brat good for nothing but scribbling. . . .” he raised his riding-crop and the whip came down over Darren’s shoulders. He yelped, more from startlement than pain, but the sound galvanized Romilly; she flung herself headlong from her horse and scrambled toward the men, throwing herself between her father and Darren so that the blows fell on her.
“Beat me instead,” she cried, “It’s not Darren’s fault! I lost her, I let her go – I cannot be free, I must be chained inside a house and robbed of my hawk, you damned tyrant, but I will not have Preciosa chained too! I bade her go with my laran – with my laran – you have driven Ruyven away with your tyranny, you have made Darren afraid of you, but I am not afraid of you, and at least you will never mistreat my hawk again, my hawk, mine-” and she burst into wild crying. Her father checked a moment as the first blow fell on her shoulders, but as he heard the flood of abuse, as the forbidden words Ruyven and laran fell on his ears, his face turned furious black, congested with wrath, and he raised the riding-crop and struck her hard. He raised it again and again; Romilly shuddered with the pain, and shrieked at him, incoherently, harder than ever; her father slid from his horse and stood over her, beating her about the back and shoulders with the crop until finally Darren flung his arms around his father, shouting and yelling, and then another voice; Dom Alderic, restraining her father with his strong arms.
“Here, here, sir – I’m sorry, but you mustn’t beat a girl like that – good God, Romilly, your back is all bloody – look, sir, you’ve torn her dress!” He wrenched the crop from her father’s hands. The man made no protest, letting his arms fall dazed to his sides. Romilly swayed, feeling bloody wetness on her back, numb and smarting, and Alderic shoved her father into Darren’s arms, coming to support her with his arm. The MacAran looked dazed, his wrath giving way to numbness; he looked hastily, in dismay, at Romilly’s torn dress where the crop had cut the stiff material into ribbons, and then away again.
He said numbly, “I-I did not know what I was doing – I am in your debt, Dom Alderic. I-I-” and his voice failed him. He swayed where he stood and would have fallen, but Darren held him upright. The MacAran stared at Romilly, and said harshly, “I lost my temper. I shall not forgive you, girl, that you caused me to forget myself so shamefully! Had you been a boy, I would still beat you senseless! But soon enough your husband will have charge of you, and if you speak to him like that, I doubt it not he will break your head in two! Get out of my sight!”
Romilly stumbled; Alderic pushed her toward her horse. “Can you ride?” he asked in an undertone.