Romilly said, “I have never seen birds of this kind.” Though she thought they looked more like kyorebni, the savage scavenger-birds of the high hills, than any proper hunting-bird of prey.
“Still, a bird is a bird,” said Carlo, “We got these from a well-wisher and we would take them as a gift to Carolin’s armies, in Nevarsin, but they are failing fast and may not live till we get there – we cannot make out what ails them, though some of us have trained and flown hawks – but none of us know how to treat them when they ail. Have you knowledge of their ills, Master Rumal?”
“A little,” Romilly said, trying desperately to muster her small knowledge of curing sick animals. These were sick indeed; any bird, from cagebird to verrin hawk, who will not preen its feathers and keep its feet in trim is a sick bird. She had been taught to mend a broken flight feather, but she knew little of medicining sick birds, and if they had molt-rot or something of the sort, she had not the faintest idea what to do about it.
Nevertheless she went up to the strange, fierce-looking birds, and held out her hand to the one Orain held, looking it into the eye and reaching out with that instinctive rapport. A dullness spread through her, a sickness and pain that made her want to retch. She pulled out of the rapport, feeling nauseated, and said, “What have you been feeding them?”
That was a good guess; she remembered Preciosa, sickened by insufficiently fresh food.
“Only the best and freshest food,” said one of the men behind Orain, defensively, “I lived in a Great House where there were hawks kept, and knew them meat-eaters; when our hunting was poor, all of us went short to give the damned birds fresh meat, for all the good it did us,” he added, looking distressedly at the drooping bird on his saddleblock.
“Only fresh meat?” said Romilly, “There is your trouble, sir. Look at their beak and claws, and then look at my hawk’s. That’s a scavenger-bird, sir; she should be freed to hunt food for herself. She can’t tear apart fresh meat, her beak’s not strong enough, and if you’ve been carrying her on your saddle and not let her free, she’s not been able to peck gravel and stones for her crop. She feeds on half-rotted meat, and she must have fur or feathers too – the muscle meat alone, and skinned as well – wasn’t it?”
“We thought that was the way to do it,” said Orain, and Romilly shook her head. “If you must feed them on killed meat, leave feather and fur on it, and make sure she gets a chance to peck up stones and twigs and even a bit of green stuff now and then. These birds, though I am sure you’ve tried to feed them on the best, are starving because they can’t digest what you’ve given them. They should be allowed to hunt for themselves, even if you have to fly them on a lure-line.”
“Zandru’s hells, it makes good sense, Orain,” said Dom Carlo, blinking, “I should have seen it … well, now we know. What can we do?”
Romilly thought about it, quickly. Preciosa had wheeled up into the sky, and hovered there; Romilly went quickly into rapport with the bird, seeing for a moment through her eyes; then said, “There is something dead in the thicket over there. I’m not familiar with your – what do you call them – sentry-birds; are they territorial, or will they feed together?”
“We daren’t let them too near each other,” said Orain, “for they fight; this one I carry near pecked out the eyes of that one on Gawin’s saddle there.”
Romilly said, “Then there’s no help for it; you’ll have to feed them separately. There-” she pointed, “is something dead for at least a couple of days – you’ll have to fetch it and cut it up for them.”
The men hesitated.
“Well,” said Dom Carlo sharply, “What are you waiting for? Carolin needs these birds, and no doubt at Tramontana they’ll have a leronis who can fly them, but we’ve got to get them there alive!”