Hawkmistress! A DARKOVER NOVEL by Marion Zimmer Bradley

“Why, so they are different – I never thought to notice.”

Romilly climbed into her saddle. She said seriously, “The first thing you have to learn about birds is to think of each one as an individual. In their manners and their habits, too, they are no more alike than you and Dom Carlo.” She turned in her saddle to the redhaired man and said, “Forgive me, sir, perhaps I should have consulted you before naming your birds-”

He shook his head. “I never thought of it. They seem good names, indeed . . . are you a cristoforo, my lad?”

She nodded. “I was reared as one. And you, sir?”

“I serve the Lord of Light,” he said briefly. Romilly said nothing, but was a little startled – the Hali’imyn did not come all that often into these hills. But of course, if they were Carolin’s men in exile, they would serve the Gods of the Hastur-kindred. And if Carolin’s armies were massing at Nevarsin – excitement caught in her throat. No doubt this was the reason Alderic was in these hills, to join the king when the time was ripe. She speculated again, briefly, about Alderic’s real identity. If these were Carolin’s men, perhaps they knew him and were his friends. But that was not her business and the last thing she should do was to entangle herself in any man’s cause. Her father had said it, and it was true, why should it matter which rascal sat on the throne, so long as they left honest folk alone to do their own business?

She rode in the line of men, keeping rather nervously close to Orain and Dom Carlo – she did not like the way the man Alaric stared at her, and, no doubt, like the villainous Rory, he coveted her horse. At least he did not know she was a female and so he did not covet her body; and she could protect her horse, at least while she had Dom Carlo’s protection.

Come to think of it, she hadn’t done such a bad job of protecting her body, at that.

They rode all day, stopping at noon for some porridge made by stirring cold well-water into finely-ground porridge powder. This, with a handful of nuts, made a hearty meal. After the meal they rested for a time, but Romilly busied herself with her knife, trimming and balancing proper perches – the sentry-birds were, she could see, in considerable distress from the poorly-balanced saddle-blocks. She checked the knots in the jesses, too, and found that one of the birds had a festered place in its leg from top-tight knots, which she treated with cold water and a poultice of healing leaves. The other men were lying around in the clearing, enjoying the sun, but when Romilly came back from checking the birds, she saw that Dom Carlo was awake and watching her. Nevertheless she went on with her work. One of the men’s stag-ponies was poorly dehorned and the horn-bud trickling blood at the base; she trimmed it and scraped it clean, drying it with a bit of rag and packing it with absorbent moss, then went from stag-pony to stag-pony, checking one which had been limping, and picking, with her knife-point, a little stone from between the hoof-segments.

“So,” said Dom Carlo at last, lazily, opening his eyes, “You go about your self-appointed tasks well – you are not lazy, Rumal. Where got you your knowledge of beasts? You have the skill of a MacAran with them-” and he sat up and looked at her, “and I would say you had a touch of their laran as well. And now I think of it, you’ve a look of that clan, too.” His grey eyes met hers, and Romilly felt a curious sense that he looked at her inside and out, and she quailed – could he tell, if he was one of the Gifted Hastur-kinfolk, that she was a girl? But he seemed not to be aware of her dismay, only went on looking at her – it was, she thought, as if it never occurred to him that anyone would refuse to answer him when he asked.