Mercedes Lackey - Kerowyn's Ride

That could have been it. Every thumb’s length of property that Rathgar called his own was actually his only through Lenore, and had come as her dowry. And he had resented it, Kero was certain of that; Rathgar was not the kind of man who liked to be in debt to anyone. Stubborn, headstrong, determined to make his own way, to depend on no one and nothing but himself, and to allow nothing to interfere with his plans for his lands and children.

But he loved Mother, she thought, letting Verenna pick her way through the thin underbrush. I know he loved Mother, and not just her lands. He used to bring her meals and feed her with his own hands when she was too weak to even move. He never said a cruel word to her, ever. He never once even looked at another woman while she was alive, and I don’t think he wanted to look at another one after she was gone.

Verenna’s eyes were better in this light than Kero’s were; basically all she had to do right now was keep from falling off, and stay alert for stray bandits or wild animals. It was hard to believe that Rathgar was really dead.

Oh, Father. She thought about all the happy times she’d spent in his presence; how he’d taught her to hunt, how proud he’d been of her scholarship. He could hardly write his own name, she thought, with a lump in her throat, yet he was so proud of me and Lordan and Mother. He used to boast about how learned we were to his friends. He used to tell them about how I could keep books better than Wendar, and how Lordan was writing the family history—and then he’d drag Lordan’s chronicles out and have me read them out loud to everyone after dinner. And he used to tell us both how we were following in Grandfather Jadrek’s footsteps, and how respected Grandfather had been, and how we should be proud to live up to his example. She could see him even now, sitting on the side of Lenore’s bed, with Lordan at his right and herself at his left, and whatever book they happened to be reading on his lap. “Don’t be like me,” he’d say, solemnly. “Don’t pass up your chance to learn. Look at me—too ignorant to do anything but swing a sword—if it hadn’t been for your mother, I’d probably be living in a bar somewhere, throwing out drunks by night and mopping the floor by day.” And with that, he’d look back over his shoulder, and he’d stretch out his hand and gently touch Lenore’s fingertips, and they’d both smile....

What happened ? she asked herself, around the tears that choked her throat. I know he changed after Mother died. Was it because I wasn’t able to be like her? He became so critical, that’s all I ever saw. There were times when I wondered if he hated me—and times when I wondered if he even knew I was alive. Maybe if I hadn’t been so completely opposite from Mother, maybe we could have gotten along better.

Verenna stopped for a moment, ears pricked forward, and Kero hastily rubbed her eyes, then peered into the moon-dappled shadows beneath the trees ahead of them. She slipped her knife from its sheath as she heard a repetition of the sound that had alerted the horse in the first place. A rustling noise—as if something very large was threading its way through the brush.

A crash that sent her heart into her throat—and then it stood in the moonlight on the path.

A stag.

Verenna shied, the stag saw them, and with a flip of its tail dove into the brush on the other side of the trail. Kero’s heart started again, and she urged Verenna forward. The mare didn’t want to go, and was sweating when Kero forced her to obey; but once they were past the spot where the stag had appeared, she calmed down a bit.

Maybe it was because he thought I wasn’t listening to him about schooling, she thought, trying to calm the mare further with a firm hand on her neck. I know he thought I should be spending more time reading and less with the horses. Dammit, I passed every test the tutor ever set me! Is it bad that I like to be outside, that I hate being cooped up inside four walls when I could be out doing things? What’s wrong with that? A book’s all right when the weather’s foul and there’s nothing else to do, but why sit and read when the wind is calling your name ?

She’d never been able to figure that out. Lordan, though—every chance he had, he was at a book or driving the tutor mad with questions. It was as if he got all of Kero’s love of learning as well as his own.

Books, dear gods, he owns more books than anyone I know. And if he gets his way, he’s going to spend half Dierna’s dower on more books....

... if he’s still alive to do it.

Her eyes stung and watered again, and her throat knotted. She rubbed her sleeve across her eyes, and wondered if he’d live the night.

If I can just get Grandmother down to the Keep ... if she’s got the kind of power everyone seems to think she does. Father would have had a cat if he’d known about the stories I used to pick up in the kitchen. They say she built the Tower in one night, with magic, just before she moved out of the Keep and gave it to Mother as her wedding present. They say she has a giant wolf and a demon-lizard for familiars. They say she can kill you or Heal you just by looking at you. And if only half of that’s true, she surely will have what I need to save Lordan and get Dierna back.

Kero bent over Verenna’s neck to keep from getting hit in the face by a series of low-hanging branches, and thought about what she’d ask for. Something that shot lightning, perhaps; a magic wand that called up demons. Exploding arrows? Maybe the help of that giant wolf?

With magic even I ought to be able to get Dierna away. And magic can surely save Lordan ... unless Grandmother doesn’t care what happens to us.

The thought made her heart freeze, and every succeeding thought seemed worse than the first.

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.

“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.”