Friends (2013) - Adams, Robert

“My brother Tohm is heir, with Djorj after him,” Lisah replied, curious as to the reason for the question. “Dharrehn is third-eldest now, with Arthuh gone to Wind.”

“As I was third-eldest of five,” Bryahn said with a nod. “Your brother captains a company he has great pride in, but 1 would have you tell me what would be required of him were he suddenly to become eldest, named heir, and summoned home.”

The girl stared in considerable dismay, never before having considered the point, and the man who watched her nodded again.

“I believe you understand,” he said, faint satisfaction evident. “Should he be named heir and summoned home he would need to go, likely without his beloved company, possibly with them in escort, but he no longer their captain. Duty to sire and Clan would require him to reclaim his word concerning all other commitments, and none would think any the less of him for it. I, too, was faced with such a thing when my eldest brother fell, leaving me the last of the five. My father had begun to feel the weight of his years, and had no wish to cause discord among my sisters’ husbands. You may see now that you were not singled out as one whose given word had no meaning. One who is duty-bound has no choice in the matter.”

Lisah digested the words spoken to her as she stared at a plate-covered chest, some measure of composure returned but by no means all. Matters seemed less black than they had; however, less black was more often gray than white.

“I still see no hint of the smile I seek,” Bryahn said, and then his hand came to her chin to raise her face. “I would have preferred not mentioning this, but there is one additional thing a man has no choice in. Should he find the woman who would make him the best of wives, he must be sure not to release his already-acknowledged claim on her. Should he do so, his father might well claim her in his stead, and then rather than wife, she would be mother to him. My father was delighted with the skill you showed during the attack, and told me that sight of you has made him feel young again. Surely you can see now that 1 have no choice save to press my claim for you, Lisah. I could not bear having you become my mother.”

Despite her previous upset, Lisah could not help but smile at that, so foolishly outrageous was the picture evoked. That the situation described was more than possible seemed to add to the humor of it, and the two smiled widely at each other. It came to Lisah then that perhaps her lot was not quite as bad as she had thought it to be; as she could not join her company and had no wish to remain longer in her father’s city, she needed to find some destination that would suit her. This Bryahn of Dunkahn was still unknown to her, but his words had brought a clearer sight of her proper path, the one to take her through the morass with honor intact. There was one other point, however. . . .

“I seem to hear the echo of ‘herdmaster’ in your thoughts,” Bryahn observed, deliberately putting his arms about her and drawing her close. “The position of herd stallion has always been considered more noble than brood mare; however, no herd stallion worth his salt would allow a passel of yapping, panting observers to bring distress to his favorite mare. What say we have five or six before we let on that we’ve done more than nod to each other?”

This time Lisah laughed full out, wishing that the chest she was being held against was not encased in blasted metal. On second thought, Sacred Sun had done right well by her, and perhaps her father had done the same. This man not only saw through to problems clearly, he made the effort to show her the solutions.

“Would you truly keep the Undying High Lord at arm’s length merely to please a brood mare?” she asked, oddly eager to hear what his reply would be. “I feel it only fair to warn you that should he appear at the wrong moment, demanding to see our issue, I am quite likely to take a sword or dirk and determine for myself just how undying he truly is.”

“I somehow have no doubt that you would, my girl,”

Bryahn laughed even as he winced at the thought, his arms tightening carefully about that leather-clad bundle that was now undeniably his. “But no, I would not keep the High Lord at arm’s length for a brood mare. For my beloved wife who is a vision of loveliness, however, I would do that and a thousand times more.”

He lowered his face to take the first taste of her lips then, his mind now showing the pulsing heat he felt for her which he had earlier covered, and Lisah was more than willing to join in the effort. To him she was a vision of loveliness, but to her he was far more than that. To her he was clearly a vision of honor—and even more, one who rode with prairiecats. Surely, before the first of his issue was required of her, there would be opportunity to ride with a cat into one or two small battles. . . .

Wind Whisper laughed with a great deal of amusement, but Bryahn was far too distracted with other doings to hear.

Rider on a Mountain

by Andre Norton

Precisely how do you go about introducing one of the top seven living science fiction and fantasy writers in the world, an extant legend, who has produced over two hundred works, a fabulous lady whose literary art introduced so many current readers to the field back in the early fifties, has continued to entrance them as they matured and now is introducing their children to the same Norton magic? The following, “Rider on a Mountain,” is an original, never-before-published Andre Norton story, written in my HORSECLANS world for this anthology. 1 feel deeply honored and blessed to be able to offer it for your pleasure.

Nancee pushed back under a screen of drooping willow branches. The wad of wet clothing she had snatched from the stream launched a runnel of water between her small breasts. Her skin was roughened by more than just gully breeze as she quivered and shook from raw bursts of fear and pain in her head. This was not hearing—though she was also dimly aware of shouts and cries from the camp over the hill behind— this was rather a feeling which racked her slim, near-childish frame.

There was pain and death, and also a wild excitement and need to cause both pain and death—running with it a cold calculation which was like a stab between her narrow shoulders, a greed which fed upon attack, the lust for death. She crouched, as frozen as a rabbit cornered by a tree cat, the sandy gravel of the river’s edge grating against her legs and buttocks.

That mind thread of pain arose to torment—then snapped as might a cord pulled too tightly. She smothered an answering cry with her hand, her teeth scraping her knuckles. Someone had died—someone close to her. Now the triumphant greed wreathed about like the smoke of a wild fire. If she stayed here—

She had learned well wariness and resolution during the past half year. Now she burrowed yet farther into the thickness of the willows until she had her back to the trunk of the largest, the rough bark grinding into her shoulders.

Would the raiders come questing along the stream? Did they realize that one of their prey was missing? She began to pull on the limp dampness of her clothing. How soon?

Would they come pounding over the hill where the river made a turn, or would they ride upstream in the stream bed itself?—the water ran shallow enough. She chewed on her lower lip.