Kingdom of the Grail by Judith Tarr

running away. He was one of them, brother among brothers, and that other part of him was put aside.
    She had brought it back—Sarissa, with her wonder of a sword. The sword rested like a familiar hand across his back. The amulet lay warm and strangely heavy on his breast. It was hers, he knew as enchanters know. It had come from her. Its warmth was the warmth of her presence.
    He ran light as a young wolf through the thicket of trees. Somewhat within, out of sight of the tent-city, one of the myriad springs bubbled from a rock and ran down in a bright rill. The magic of wood and water danced in his blood.
    He left his garments by the rill, hidden under a stone, and the sword buried beneath them. Even as his being shifted and changed, became air and winged swiftness, he remembered the amulet. It swung against his breast, brushing the soft hawk’s feathers. He made a sound in his throat, a hawk-sound, that might almost have been laughter. He leaped into the blue heaven.
    Freedom was beautiful, glorious. But the man’s spirit ruled the hawk’s. It brought him back well before the sun set. He was replete with the succulent flesh of a rabbit, and weary, but pleasurably so, with flying high and far. The return to human shape was a bit more of a shock than it usually was: bruises, cuts, cracked ribs, all reminded him forcibly of the battle he had won.
    He dressed with care, moving stiffly, but never regretting his long hours’ flight. His head was clear, his heart light. He knew what he would do. He would speak to Charles of Ganelon, and tell him the truth; all of it, however difficult,however dangerous. He would trust the king, whom after all he had sworn to serve.
    As he laced up his tunic, a flicker of movement caught his eye. He paused. The wood was still. His ears sharpened. Was there a faint, the very faintest hint of indrawn breath?
    He moved again with careful casualness, to finish dressing, to sling the sword on its baldric. Someone was watching. Had that person seen him—had he, or she, seen the change?
    He bent to dip a handful of cold springwater. The watcher moved—toward him, not away. He gathered himself. Very carefully his hand crept toward the knife at his belt.
    Leaves rustled. A supple body slipped between a pair of tree-boles.
    He gaped like a fool. For an instant he thought it was she; Sarissa. But this was a taller, slighter shape, and darker, more evidently Saracen. She carried a jar, as if she had come to fetch water; but this spring was a long way from the Saracens’ camp.
    She smiled at him, long lids lowered over great dark eyes, dark lashes brushing the cream-smooth cheeks. Oh, she was beautiful, this infidel woman, lissome and light, swaying like a young tree in the wind. There was gold on her brows and her fingers, and clashing rings of it on her slender wrists and her delicate ankles.
    This one must be a Saracen’s prized possession—perhaps the emir’s himself. Every fear Roland had had when he first saw Sarissa, he well should have now. Yet they were alone, and she had all too clearly come seeking diversion. And he had not lain with a woman in longer than he liked to remember.
    The hawk’s mind was still foremost, the man’s not yet returned to full strength. A hawk took what he pleased, when it pleased him. When the falcon came into her season, he was ready; he mated.
    This woman wanted him. Her smile was full of desire. She ran the tip of her tongue over her red lips and swayed toward him. She let slip the mantle that covered her.
    She was naked beneath it, her skin white and rich as cream. Even as slender as she was, her breasts were round and full. Her belly was a sweet curve. Her sex was pluckedsmooth—so that was true, that traveler’s tale. It was white and round, the nether lips just visible, as red as her mouth.
    She danced for him, serpent-supple, gliding over the forest mould. Long rays of sun illumined her, casting bars of light