Hawkmistress! A DARKOVER NOVEL by Marion Zimmer Bradley

Then the voice struck through to her, angry and cold-but there was tenderness in it too; the voice of Mikhail, lord of Falconsward, The MacAran.

“Romilly!” he said, shocked but compassionate, “Daughter, what do you think you are doing? This is no task for a maiden, manning a verrin hawk! I gave orders to that wretch Davin and he lies slack in bed while one hawk is mishandled by a child, and the other, I doubt not, starved on its block….”

Romilly could hardly speak through the tears threatening to surge up inside her and break her control.

“The other hawk flies free to hatch more of her kind,” she said, “I released her myself at dawn. And this one has not been mishandled, Father-”

At the words and movement the hawk bated again, more fiercely than before, and Romilly gasped, struggling to keep her sense of self against the fury of thrashing wings, the hunger, the blood-lust, the frenzy to break free, fly free, dash itself to death against the dark enclosing beams .. . but it subsided, and Romilly, crooning to the bird, sensed another mind touching hers, sending out waves of calm . . . so that’s how Father does it, she thought with a corner of her mind, brushed a dripping lock of hair out of her eyes and stepped toward the hawk again.

Here is food, come and eat… nausea rushed through her stomach at the smell and sight of the dead meat on the gauntlet. Yes, hawks feed on fresh-caught food, they must be tamed by starvation into feeding on carrion….

Abruptly the touching of minds, girl, man, hawk, broke, and Mikhail of MacAran said harshly, “Romilly, what am I to do with you, girl? You have no business here in the hawk-house; it is no work for a lady.” His voice softened. “No doubt Davin put you up to this; and I’ll deal with him. Leave the meat and go, Romilly. Sometimes a hawk will feed from an empty block when she’s hungry enough, and if she does we can keep her; if not, Davin can release her tomorrow, or that boy of his can do something for once to earn his porridge! It’s too late tonight for her to fly. She won’t die, and if she does, it won’t be the first hawk we’ve lost. Go in, Romilly, get a bath and go to your bed. Leave the hawks to the hawkmaster and his boy-that’s why they’re here, love, my little girl doesn’t need to do this. Go in the house, Romi, child.”

She swallowed hard, feeling tears break through.

“Father, please,” she begged, “I’m sure I can tame her. Let me stay, I beg of you.”

“Zandru’s hells,” the MacAran swore, “If but one of your brothers had your strength and skill, girl! But I’ll not have it said that my daughters must work in mews and stable! Get you inside, Romilly, and not another word from you!”

His face was angry and implacable; the hawk bated again, at his anger, and Romilly felt it surging through her too, an explosion of fury, frustration, anger, terror. She dropped the gauntlet and ran, sobbing with rage, and behind her, her father strode out of the mews and locked it behind him.

Romilly went to her room, where she emptied her aching bladder, ate a little bread and honey and drank a cup of milk from the tray one of the serving-women brought her; but her mind was still with the chained, suffering, starving hawk in the mews.

It would not eat, and soon it would die. It had begun, just a little, to trust Romilly . . . surely, the last two or three times it had bated, before her father had disturbed them, it had quieted sooner, feeling her soothing touch. But now it would surely die.

Romilly began to draw off her shoes. The MacAran was not to be disobeyed, certainly not by his daughter. Even Ruyven, six feet tall and almost a man, had never dared open disobedience until the final break. Romilly, Darren, Mallina-all of them obeyed his word and seldom dared even a look of defiance; only the youngest, spoilt little Rael, would sometimes tease and wheedle and coax in the face of his father’s edicts.

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