THEY had searched the dead man.  There was nothing about him that could not have been worn or carried by any blank shield riding out of Estcarp on some private errand.  His wounds, the Falconer declared, were not from steel or edged weapons but were caused by tooth and talon.  To Tirtha's surprise, the dead man had no weapons.  There was a sword belt, to be sure, but the scabbard it supported was empty, as were all dart clip loops.  He certainly had not ventured into this high, dangerous land bare-handed.  Had he been stripped after death?  If so, how had the looter passed the Torgian?  And what enemy had traveled with a fanged and clawed hunter?

The mount snorted and pawed the turf at intervals, even though it kept its distance.  Attached to its light saddle hung a pair of travel bags.  It was to those Tirtha turned her attention next.  If the Torgian would allow her to free them, they might just learn more of the dead.

He had lain there for some time, the Falconer averred, judging from the post-death stiffness of the corpse.  Oddly enough, except for the clouds of flies, he had not been preyed upon by any scavengers, such as gathered elsewhere, no doubt because of the Torgian.

Since they had no tools, the Falconer used his sword to hack at the turf, loosening clods which Tirtha broke away and piled to one side.  The grave they so dug was a shallow one, but they did the best they could.  When they laid him in it, the girl brought forth a square scarf, such as she used in bad weather to cover her head under the folding of her hood, to lay over his face.  She helped repile the clods of turf, then brought stones from the brook edge to add cover.  When they had done, she arose from her knees, regarding broodingly the mound they had raised.

Tongue tip swept across her lower lip as she found words.  They were not those formal ones she had heard said many times when she was not yet woman grown, but they were the best she could summon at this hour:

"May your sleep be sweet, stranger, may your path beyond be smooth, may you come to your desiring and it give you peace."  She stooped, picked up one white stone that was nearly round, fashioned so, she thought, by water's rolling, and which she had laid aside for this purpose.  As if she were indeed kin-blood and close kin, she placed this above the hidden head of the dead man. It bore no symbol of the old Power, nor could she breathe into it any spell of releasing.  But through the last hard years, Tirtha had come to believe that such formalities were intended to lighten a little the grief of kin left behind rather than touch one who had already taken the Long Road and who perhaps, had already forgotten this world, impatient for what lay beyond.