Kerowyn's Ride

She never once sent a messenger or anything after Mother died. Maybe she was angry with Father for taking Mother away from her. Maybe she really hates the rest of us. Maybe she thinks we all hate her, and she’s gone all sour and mean. Maybe the magic has gotten to her brain, and she’s gone mad.

“Lady Kerowyn—” said a voice out of the dark.

Three

“Lady Kerowyn—” said a voice from beneath the shadows of the trees, frightening the breath out of her, closing her throat with an icy hand. There was no warning, no movement beside the road, just a voice coming out of the darkness. It was a voice as harsh as the croaking of crows, and Kerowyn jerked, letting out an involuntary squawk of surprise as she reined in Verenna. The mare jumped and squealed, dancing madly backward, but fortunately didn’t bolt.

Her heart felt like a lump of frozen stone, her pulse rang in her ears as she wrestled Verenna to a standstill. Hands trembling on the reins, she peered at the dark shadow-shapes under the trees; there was something there, but she couldn’t even make out if it was human or not, much less if it was male or female. And that voice certainly didn’t tell her anything.

“Who are you?” she replied, hoping her own voice wasn’t going to break. “What do you want?”

“I live here,” replied the voice, “which is more than I can say for you. What are you doing out here, beyond your father’s lands, Lady Kerowyn? Why aren’t you safe in your bed, in your father’s Keep?”

It sounds like an old woman, Kero decided. A really nasty old woman. The kind that makes her daughter-in-law’s life a misery. Oddly enough, the mockery in the old woman’s voice and words made her feel calmer—and angrier. “Which is more than I can say for you,” indeed! “If you really live here, you know that the sorceress Lady Kethryveris is my grandmother,” she called back. “I need to see her, and I’d appreciate it if you got out of the way. You’re frightening my horse.”

“In the middle of the night?” the old woman retorted. “Dressed in men’s clothing? Carrying a weapon?” She moved out into the middle of the path, blocking it, but still in enough shadow that Kero couldn’t see her as anything other than a cloaked and hooded shape. “What kind of fool’s errand are you on, girl?”

Kero tightened all over with anger, inadvertently making Verenna rear and dance. When she got her mare and herself under a little better control, she told the old woman of the raid, in as few words as possible, though she wondered why she was bothering. “I’m going to ask my grandmother for help,” she finished. “Now if you’ll please get out of my way—”

“Dressed like that?” The woman produced a short bark of a laugh, like a fox. “I think you have something else planned. I think you reckon to follow after these raiders, and try to rescue this girl they took.”

“And what if I do?” Kero retorted, raising her chin angrily. “What business is it of yours?”

“You’re a fool, girl,” the old woman said acidly, then hawked and spat in the dust of the path just in front of Verenna’s hooves. “You’re a moonstruck fool. That’s a job for men, not silly little girls with their heads stuifed full of tales. You’re probably acting out of ignorance or out of pride, and either one will get you killed. Go back to your place, girl. Go back to women’s work. Go back where you belong.”

Every word infuriated Kero even more; she went hot, then cold with ire, and by the time the old woman had finished, she was too angry at first even to speak. Verenna was no help; she reacted both to Kero’s anger and to something the mare saw—or thought she saw—under the trees. As Verenna danced and shied, the mare’s panic forced her to calm herself down in order to control the horse. She finally brought Verenna to a sweating, eye-rolling standstill a scant length from the old woman.

Whoever she was, the old hag was at least as foolhardy as she accused Kerowyn of being, for she hadn’t moved a thumb’s length out of the way during the worst of Verenna’s antics.

“What I do or plan to do has nothing to do with pride,” Kero said tightly, through clenched teeth, as Verenna tossed her head and snorted in alarm. “There’s no one left down there that’s capable of riding out after her. No one, old woman. Not one single man able to ride and lift a weapon. All that’s down there is a handful of frightened servants and pages, and two old, arthritic men who never learned to ride. If I don’t go after Dierna, no one will. If I wait until that so-called “proper” help arrives, she’ll be dead, or worse. People who intend to ransom a captive don’t ride in and try to slaughter every able-bodied adult in the place. I don’t have a choice, old woman.”

She wanted to say more, and couldn’t. Fear stilled her voice in her throat. She was right—but— Everything I said is true—and—everything she said is true. This is going to get me killed, but I’ve come too far to turn back now. I made my choices back at the Keep.

“I made my choices, and I’m going to live or die by them,” she finished, hoping she sounded brave, but all too aware that she probably sounded like a foolhardy braggart. “And I’m going to see my grandmother whether you bar the way or not!”

She touched her heels to Verenna’s sides, and the mare bolted forward. The old woman stepped adroitly aside at the last possible moment, and they cantered past her and were out of sight or hearing in a few moments.

Kero reined the mare in as soon as she’d run out some of her nerves; the path was still just as dark and potentially treacherous. And the last thing I need is for Verenna to break her leg within sight of the Tower. I should be in sight of the Tower by now, she thought, looking