Talon of the Silver Hawk, last of the Orosini, servant of the Conclave of Shadows, had returned to Roldem. Here he was Talwin Hawkins—distant cousin to Lord Seljan Hawkins, Baron of the Prince’s Court in Krondor. His title was Squire of Morgan River and Bellcastle, Baronet of Silverlake—estates producing almost no income—and he was vassal to the Baron of Ylith; a former Bannerette Knight Lieutenant under the command of the Duke of Yabon, Tal Hawkins was a young man of some rank and little wealth.
For almost two years he had been absent from the scene of his most significant public triumph, winning the tournament at the Masters’ Court, thus earning the title of World’s Greatest Swordsman. Cynical despite his youth, he tried to keep the illusion of superiority in perspective—he had been the best of the several hundred entrants who had come to Roldem for the contest, but that hardly convinced him he was the best in the world. He had no doubt there was some soldier on a distant battlement or mercenary riding guard duty somewhere who could cut him up for fish bait given the chance; but fortunately they hadn’t entered the contest.
For a brief instant, Tal wondered if fate would allow him to return to Roldem in three years’ time to defend that championship. He was but twenty-three years of age, so it would be only circumstance that would prevent him from returning to Roldem. Should he do so, he hoped the contest would be less eventful than the last. Two men had died by his sword during the matches—a very rare and usually regrettable outcome. Nevertheless, Tal had felt no regret, since one of the men had been among those responsible for the destruction of his nation, and the other had been an assassin sent to kill him. Memories of assassins turned his mind to the man following him. The other man had also boarded at Salador, yet had managed to avoid direct contact with him aboard the small ship for the duration of the voyage, despite their being nearly two weeks at sea.
The bird wheeled overhead, then pulled up, wings flapping as it hovered, legs extended downward and tail fanned, as if watching prey. With its telltale cry, the predator announced its presence.
Hearing the familiar screech, Tal looked up, then hesitated for a moment, for the bird above the throng was a silver hawk. It was his spirit guide and had given him his naming vision. For an instant Tal imagined he could see the creature’s eyes and hear a greeting. Then the bird wheeled and flew away.
“Did you see that?” asked a porter nearby. “Never seen a bird do that.”
Tal said, “Just a hawk.”
“Never seen a hawk that color, leastways not around here,” answered the porter, who took one look at where the bird had hovered, then returned to lugging his bundle. Tal nodded and moved back into the throng. The silver hawk was native to his homeland far to the north, across the vast Sea of Kingdoms, and as far as he knew, none inhabited the island kingdom of Roldem. He felt troubled, and now by more than the presence of the man who had followed him from Salador. He had been subsumed so long in the role of Tal Hawkins that he had forgotten his true identity. Perhaps the bird had been a warning.
With a mental shrug he considered that the bird’s appearance might have been nothing more than a coincidence. While still an Orosini at heart, in all ways he had been forced to abandon the practices and beliefs of his people. He still owned a core being—Talon of the Silver Hawk—a boy forged in the crucible of a nation’s history and culture; but he had been shaped and alloyed by fate and the teachings of outlanders so that at times the Orosini boy was no more than a distant memory.
He wended his way through the press of the city. Shops displayed colorful fashions as he entered a more prosperous part of the city. He lived at just the right level to convince everyone he was a noble of modest means. He was charming enough and successful enough as Champion of the Masters’ Court to warrant invitations to the very best Roldemish society had to offer, but had yet to host his own gala.
Reaching the door to the moneylender’s home, he reflected wryly that he might crowd half a dozen close friends into his modest apartment, but he could hardly entertain those to whom he owed a social debt. He knocked lightly upon the door, then entered.
The office of Kostas Zenvanose consisted of little more than a tiny counter, and there was barely enough room to stand before it. A clever hinge allowed the counter to be raised at night and put out of the way. Three feet behind the counter a curtain divided the room. Tal knew that behind the curtain lay the Zenvanose family living room. Beyond that lay the kitchen, bedrooms, and exit to the back courtyard.
A pretty girl appeared, and her face brightened with a smile. “Squire! It’s wonderful to see you again.”