By the Sword (5 page)

Agnira's Teeth!
She shuddered.
He's destroyed us! There's no one to go after Dierna—there isn't a man fit to ride in the whole Keep! And if we don't at least try—I know her uncle, he'll call blood-feud on us. Kill every last one, take the Keep....

Dierna's uncle, the powerful Lord Baron Reichert, had used the pretext of familial insult to add to his lands more than once. He wasn't likely to turn down an opportunity like this one—and by the time the King found out about it, the Baron would have ensured that there was no one left at the Keep to argue Lordan's innocence. If they were lucky, they'd escape with their lives. If they weren‘t—the Baron had no percentage in their survival.

We won't have a chance,
she thought bleakly.
Not unless someone goes after her, makes a token try at rescuing her—

Dierna's sweet, heart-shaped face, and sensitive mouth and eyes rose up like a ghost to confront her.
Dearest gods, the poor baby—

That last unbidden thought did something unexpected to Kerowyn. She was overwhelmed with dizziness, and reached blindly for the support of the wall. As her hand touched the wall, it faded away, and she was afraid she was about to collapse, to faint like one of Dierna's foolish cousins.

But she didn't collapse; she opened her eyes—but it wasn't the hall she was seeing, it was the road. And, faint shapes in the moonlight, a band of men on horseback.

For a moment she saw the girl, bound and gagged, and carried in front of one of the riders, a tall, thin man, in robes rather than armor. Her eyes were wide with shock and fear, her delicate face white and waxen, and she looked closer to eleven than to fourteen.

Anger replaced fear, outrage drowned any other feelings. This was not right. The girl was hardly more than a child.

Kero blinked.

The vision—if that was what it was—faded, replaced by another. A plain, simple sword. Then her own hand, taking the sword-hilt as if it belonged to her.

But I can‘t
—

Again, a flicker of Dierna's frightened eyes.
Blessed Trine. Only fourteen, and sheltered all her life. Like a little glass bird, and just as easy to break.

The visions faded, leaving her staring out at the hall again. The anger retreated for a moment.
I'm the only one left that could follow. If I try to get her back, her uncle won't have an excuse to come after Lordan.
She hugged her arms to her chest and shivered—then the anger returned, stronger this time.
And dear gods
—
all alone with those bastards—I can't just sit here, playing ninny like those cousins of hers.
I can't.
It isn't honor, it isn't pride, it isn't any of those things in ballads—it's that I can't sit here knowing what's going to happen to her once they think they're safe, and not try and do something to prevent it.

Then something else occurred to her, and amid the anger and the fear, there rose a tiny flicker of hope.

Suddenly, following after the raiders didn't seem quite so mad a decision.

She turned on her heel and ran for the servants' entrance, but this time instead of going down, she went up, emerging into a corridor that ran the length of the hall itself and led to the family quarters. Her own room was in the first corner tower, where the hallway made a right-angle bend. She snatched a tallow-dip and lit it at the lantern, then ran up the short flight of stairs to the round room above. It was cold by winter and hot by summer, and drafty at all seasons, but it was hers and hers alone—which meant it held things not even Lordan knew about.

She lit her own lamp beside the door and blew out the tallow-dip. As the light rose, she went to the tall, curtained bed, and pulled the mattress off onto the floor. Instead of the usual network of rope-springs, Kero's bed was one of the old style, a kind of box with a wooden bottom. Only the bottom of
this
bed held a secret. As she had discovered when she was a child, it could be raised on concealed hinges to reveal a second shallow compartment.

It still held a few of her childhood treasures; the dreaming-pillow her Grandmother Kethry had sent, her favorite stuffed toy horse, the two wooden knights Lordan had never played with and never missed when she spirited them out of his nursery and into hers—

But now it held, besides those things, her brother's castoff clothing
and armor;
a set of light chain made for him when he first began training, long since forgotten in the armory. It no longer fit him; he was too broad in the shoulder. But it fit her perfectly. She shed the ruins of her skirts with a sigh of relief, and pulled on breeches, stockings, and sleeved leather tunic. She bound up her hair as best she could; debated cutting it off for a moment, then decided she was going to need it under the helm. The chain mail shirt came next; without a squire, getting into it was a matter of contortion and wriggling, and enough hip-waggling to make a trollop stare. It caught in her hair despite her best efforts; she jerked her head and the caught strands were torn out of her scalp with the weight of the mail.

Finally she settled it into place, jingling noisily, with a final shake of her hips. It covered her from neck to knee, slit before and behind so the wearer could ride. Another leather jerkin went over it, to muffle the inevitable jangling of the rings. She pulled on her riding boots, then turned and headed for the door.

But all she had in the way of weapons were her knives.
I don't know how to use a sword,
she thought, hesitating with one hand on the door handle.
But knives aren't much use against a longer weapon. Maybe I'd better take one anyway.

So instead of going back the way she'd come, she headed for her brother's rooms and his small, private 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.

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.

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.

She managed to kill the scream trying to tear its way up out of her throat before she frightened the mare, but she did drop all the tack, startling the young horse so that she shied a little and danced away, nervously. Kero, for her part, just stood and shook for a moment. A very long moment, in fact, so long that Verenna got over her startlement and picked her way cautiously back toward her rider before Kero had entirely recovered.

The horse nuzzled her anxiously, and Kero found the steadiness to reach for Verenna and scratch her ears while she regained the last of her own composure. Finally she was able to take the hackamore off her own arm and slip it over Verenna's nose without her hands shaking so much that she'd be unable to get the band over the mare's ears.

Saddling Verenna was a matter of moments. The mare stood on command, quietly, as she'd been taught, while Kero slung the saddle and blanket over her back and fastened the girth. Chest and rump bands were next, as Kero fumbled the buckles a little in the dark, then Kero snugged the girth tight against her barrel. Verenna snorted a little, but was being remarkably well-behaved under the circumstances.

Which is just as well,
Kero admitted, as she put her foot in the stirrup and pulled herself up onto Verenna's back.
I'm not sure what I'd do if she decided to get out of hand.

She rode the mare up to the fence, then leaned over and grabbed the latch on the gate. The pasture gate could be opened from horseback, and Verenna remained quiet, though a little jumpy, throughout the entire maneuver.
At least I don't have the others crowding up around this end, waiting for a chance to bolt.
Verenna was a very light-footed beast, and hardly made more noise than a goat as she pivoted in place so that Kero could pull the gate shut and latch it closed. Kero was counting on that; she'd need every advantage she had against the raiders.

Verenna automatically turned southward as they moved away from the gate at a fast walk; Kero normally rode her along the game trails in the Keep's wild lands, and the shortest way there was along the road south. She shivered under the saddle; horses are creatures of habit, and her world had been turned all round about this evening, first by the invasion of strange men and horses into her pasture, then by Kero's arrival on the heels of the chaos. This business of riding out in the middle of the night had the mare nervous and confused—

And now Kero confused her still further by turning her in an entirely opposite direction to the one she expected. Westward, not southward, and away from the hunting lands and the main village.

She stopped, snorted again, and bucked a little. Kero held her head down, and she fought the reins for a moment more, then settled, shaking her head.

Poor baby, you don't know what we're doing out here in the middle of the night, do you?
Kero let her stand for a moment until she stopped shivering, then loosened her reins and gave her a touch of the heel. Obedient, but still snorting a little in protest, the mare headed into the west, up to the least hospitable side of the valley, along a faint track that led to the border of the Keep lands.

Their road stayed a track only so long as it lay within the Keep's borders. From there it turned into a goat path, then into a game trail.