Kerowyn's Ride

armory. Hopefully, the raiders wouldn’t have gotten that far.

Lordan’s rooms were farther down the darkened hall, halfway between her tower and what had been her mother’s solar. Kero had never had the leisure to play the lady over a bowerful of maids, nor had she really ever cared for fine sewing even if she’d had the leisure for it, so the solar had been closed up until such time as Lordan took a bride, or Rathgar remarried.

And since the latter had never occurred, Lordan had used the solar as a place to keep his arms and armor so that he wouldn’t have to tend it down in the cold, uncomfortable, and gloomy armory. Doubtless their father would have had a fit if he’d known, but Kero hadn’t seen any reason to tell him. If Lordan wanted to polish his swords up in the sun-filled solar, why not? Sun had never harmed metal or boys so far as Kero had ever heard.

She pushed the door open, and went in; the moon shown full through the solar windows, and the armor on its stand looked uncannily like Lordan for a moment. It gleamed a soft silver where the moonlight struck reflections from the polished metal and those reflections gave it a momentary illusion of movement.

Lordan’s swords were hung from the racks where shuttles for the looms had been kept in Lenore’s day. Kero knew the one she wanted: one of Lordan’s earliest blades, a light shortsword, the closest thing to a knife and hence the one she could probably use the easiest if it came to that.

Lady Agnira, grant it doesn’t....

She buckled the belt over her tunic, hesitated a moment more, then resolutely helped herself to a little round helm with a nose-guard hanging on the wall beside it. It might not be much in the way of protection, but it was better than a bare head.

Lordan’s rooms next door had a private stair to the stables outside; normally locked, but she and Lordan had made enough illicit moonlight expeditions that she’d long ago learned how to pick the clumsy old lock in the dark.

The door was still locked, but her hands, though they shook a little, still remembered how to tease the lock with the thin blade of her knife. She forced herself to breathe slowly, told herself that this was nothing out of the ordinary, leaned against the door frame, and tried not to think about what she was doing.

It worked; the lock clicked, and the door swung open, hinges creaking.

The stairs gave out on the tack-room, and the shielded light normally kept burning there made her blink, eyes watering. But there were no sounds of restless horses beyond the door, and the tack-room itself was a shambles.

As her eyes adjusted to the light and she picked her way over the saddles and other tack strewn over the floor, she saw why—there were no horses to hear. The stall doors stood wide open; what beasts the brigands hadn’t stolen had doubtless been driven off. Witless things that horses were, they were undoubtedly scattered to the four winds, running until they foundered.

So much for sending someone for help, she thought bleakly. Not even the guests are going to be able to send their own people back, not until some time tomorrow at the earliest.

Someone had planned this very well indeed.

With one small exception.

Kero hurried to one stall that would have been empty even if one of the guests hadn’t brought a high-bred palfrey to install there. Though this was the stall reserved for Kero’s riding beast, her Shin-a’in-bred mare spent most of her time in the pastures from the time the last of the winter’s snow cleared off until the first of it appeared. Kero generally kept Verenna’s tack hung over the side of the stall; it didn’t take up much room, since she had never permitted anything other than Shin’a’in tack on the young mare’s back. The one thing Rathgar was an expert on was horses, and he’d taught his children himself. Kero tended and trained Verenna with her own hands unless there was an urgent need for her to be otherwise occupied.

The tack was still there; blanket, a saddle with lightweight stirrups that was hardly heavier than the blanket, bitless bridle and reins. She gathered it all up, slipped the hackamore over her arm, and took her back way out of the stables, out into the pasture.

Some of the horses had either jumped the fence or been driven out here—she saw them in the moonlight, dark shapes milling around at the end of the pasture, whinnying their distress. Catching them was going to be impossible until they’d tired themselves out.

Pray Verenna hasn’t gotten caught up in their panic, she thought, biting her lip. If she has—

Best not to think about it. Kero pursed her lips and whistled shrilly, three times.

And very nearly jumped out of her skin as something warm and soft shoved her in the small of the back.

Gods!