Ladyhawke by Joan D. Vinge Page A

began to walk faster. Suddenly Navarre raised his arm and hurled the broadsword like a javelin.
    The sword smashed into a tree inches from Phillipe’s head. Phillipe spun around, looking back with his heart in his throat. He saw the look on Navarre’s face—frozen, deadly; the face of a man utterly obsessed. And he knew that he had been wrong. Phillipe glanced again at the sword quivering in the tree. He smiled ingratiatingly as he leaned down, picking up a dead branch, never taking his eyes off of Navarre. “I think I’ll gather some wood for the fire . . .”
    The night was quiet around the deserted campsight; the embers of the untended campfire pulsed redly, like dying suns. Goliath snorted and stamped, cropping grass, tethered at the clearing’s edge with Navarre’s sheathed sword slung at his saddle.
    A twig snapped in the dark woods beyond the fire. Goliath looked up, pricking his ears. Another twig snapped. The young woman who had called the wolf to her the night before stepped cautiously out of the darkness. She wore a man’s tunic and pants, and a short dagger at her belt. Her fair hair, uncovered, was cut short like a man’s, or a mourner’s. She entered the boulder-studded clearing, glancing left and right, nervous but expectant. The clearing was empty except for the stallion. She sighed, resigned to another night of solitude. Goliath nickered softly in recognition. She dropped another branch on the fire and crossed to him; offered her open palm for him to snuffle and lip.
    Her eyes moved to the sword hanging from the saddle. She froze, as something wedged beneath its hilt caught her eye. She moved along the stallion’s shoulder to pluck a hawk feather from beneath the sword. Holding it up into the moonlight, she marveled at the subtle patterns of light and darkness along its length. Her fingers traced its fragile profile delicately; she stood spellbound, as if she were touching a part of some creature to which she felt an uncanny kinship. She smiled, a smile for no one but herself. Her mind filled with dim echoes of soaring flight as she let the feather drift to the ground.
    Reaching out, she uncinched the stallion’s saddle, pulled it down from his back with the ease of long familiarity, and set it under a tree. She untied the rope of Goliath’s halter. Goliath gave a brief snort of protest as she led him away from his meal.
    “Oh, shush,” she murmured. She tossed the rope across his withers. Reaching up to catch handfuls of his heavy mane, she swung easily onto his back. She smiled, stroking his neck. “Now, just make sure you remember everything we’ve learned,” she whispered. She tightened her legs, and he moved forward, trotting slowly around the campfire. And then he began to dance. Responding to the subtle shifts of her weight, the pressure of her gripping legs, her almost inaudible commands, the war-horse moved through the complex and beautiful dressage patterns she had taught him through endless nights like this one.
    As they circled the clearing like one creature, in perfect communion, she could almost believe that she was back in her home in Anjou, a girl again. If she closed her eyes, she could be that other self, riding endlessly along the bright, sunlit valley of the Loire through the colors of the day . . .
    “Psst.”
    Her eyes opened. She halted Goliath instinctively, her heart pounding, wondering if she were going mad at last . . . not willing to believe that she had actually heard another human voice whispering in the night. She peered into the darkness around her, seeing nothing.
    “Psst! My lady! Up here!”
    She looked up, blinked in astonishment. Hanging from a stout limb just above her head was the sweet-faced boy she had seen last night, trussed up like a prize catch of game. His hands were bound behind him, and the single long rope that held him suspended circled his throat; he could not even struggle. He looked exceedingly uncomfortable. But he smiled at her, trying