Kerowyn's Ride v(bts-1

by Mercedes Lackey

  Kethry was kneeling at the side of a man who was conscious and talking to her. She looked up from her current patient at just that moment, and her weary smile told Tarma all she needed to know about the mage’s night. Long, exhausting, but with the only reward that counted—the casualties had been light at worst. Tarma nodded, and as Keth continued her current task of changing the dressing on a badly gashed leg, she slowed her steps to time her arrival with the completion of that task.

  “Looks like you’ve spent a night, she’enedra,” the Shin’a’in said quietly, as Kethry stood up. “How’s the boy?”

  “He’ll live,” she said, tucking a strand of hair under her scarf. “In fact, I think he’ll be up and around before too long. I held him stable from a distance as soon as Kero told me what had happened, and I managed to get the one Healing spell What’s-her-name taught me to work for a change.”

  Tarma shook her head, and grimaced. “I never could understand it. Adept-class mage, and half the time you can’t Heal a cut finger.”

  “Power has nothing to do with it,” Kethry retorted, “and it’s damned frustrating.“

  “Well, if you ask me, I think your success at Healing has as much to do with how desperate you are to make it work as anything,” the fighter replied, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and flexing her aching arches. “Every time you’ve really needed it to work, it has. It’s only failed you when you were trying it for something trivial.”

  “Huh. That might just be—well, the boy is fine, and as grateful as anyone could want, bless his heart. The girl, on the other hand—” Kethry rolled her eyes expressively. “Dear gods and Powers—you’ve never heard such weeping and histrionics in your life. Kero came dragging them both in about dawn, and Her Highness was fine until one of her idiot cousins spotted her and set up a caterwauling. Then—you’d have thought that every wound in the place had been to her fair, white body.”

  “About what I figured,” the Shin’a’in said laconically. “Did you truss her up, or what?”

  “I sent her up to the bower with the rest of her hysterical relatives,” Keth told her, the mage’s mouth set in a thin line of distaste. “And I sent Kero to bed, once she’d looked in on her brother. She’s made of good stuff, that girl.”

  “She should be,” Tarma replied, pleased that Kero hadn’t fallen apart once she’d reached safety. “But it doesn’t necessarily follow. Well, I’m for bed. And see that you fall into one sometime soon.”

  “Soon, hell,” the mage snorted. “I’m going now. There’s nothing to be done at this point that can’t be handled by someone else. There’re half a dozen helpers, fresher and just as skilled.”

  Tarma clutched the tunic above her heart. “Blessed Star-Eyed! You’re delegating! I never thought I’d see the day!”

  Kethry mimed a blow at her, and the fighter ducked. “Watch yourself, or I’ll turn you into a frog.”

  “Oh, would you?” Tarma said hopefully. “Frogs don’t get dragged out of their beds to go rescue stupid wenches in the middle of the night.”

  Kethry just threw her hands up in disgust, and turned to find one of her “helpers.”

  The tallow should be ready about now, Kero thought, setting her mortar and pestle aside long enough to check the little pot of fat heating over a water-bath. The still-room was dark, cool, and redolent with the odors of a hundred different herbs, and of all the “womanly” places in the Keep, it was by far Kerowyn’s favorite. Dierna was still having vapors every time she set foot outside the bower—now converted from armory back to women’s quarters by Dierna’s agitated orders—so Grandmother Kethry had entrusted the making of medicines to Kero’s hands.

  It keeps me busy, she thought, a little ruefully. And at least it’s useful-busy. Not like Dierna’s damned embroidery. Some of the recipes Kethry had dictated from memory, and they were things Kerowyn had never heard of; she was completely fascinated, and retreat to the still-room was not the boring task it usually was.

  Retreat to the stillroom was just that, too—retreat. Dierna’s relatives, the female ones in particular, were treating her very strangely. Part of the time they acted as if she was some creature as alien and frightening as Tarma’s giant wolf. The rest of the time they acted as if she was a source of prime amusement. They spoke to her as little as possible, but she was certain that they made up wild stories about her once they were on the other side of the bower doors.

  They certainly don’t seem to spend any time doing anything else, she thought sourly, as she carefully removed the pot of melted fat from the heat, and sifted powdered herbs into it. They’re amazingly good at finding other places to be whenever there’s real work to be done.

  She beat the herbs into the fat with brisk strokes of the spatula, taking some of her anger at the women out on the pot of salve. She was very tired of the odd, sideways looks she was getting—tired enough that she had continued to wear Lordan’s castoffs, rather than “proper, womanly” garb, out of sheer perversity.

  I’m cleaning, and lifting, and tending the wounded—when I’m not out drilling the boys in bow or in the still-room, she thought stubbornly. Breeches are a lot more practical than skirts. Why shouldn’t I wear them? Grandmother and that Shin’a’in woman do—

  She had to smile at that. And they are one and all so frightened of Grandmother and her friend that if either one of them even looks cross, they practically faint.

  The salve smelled wonderful, and that alone was a far cry from the medicines she used to make here. She sighed, and stirred a little slower, feeling melancholy descend on her. Life, was not the same; it didn’t look as if it would ever be the same again.

  It isn’t just them, it’s everything. It seems as if no one treats me the same anymore. Not the servants, not Wendor, not even Lordan. Why has everything changed? It doesn’t make any sense. I haven’t changed. Of course, Father—

  The thought of Rathgar made her feel guilty. She knew she should be mourning him—Dierna certainly was. The girl had ransacked Lenore’s wardrobe for mourning clothes, and had them made over to fit herself and her women. She’d carried on at the funeral as through Rathgar had been her father instead of Kero’s.

  She carried on enough for both me and Lordan, Kero recalled sardonically. Maybe it’s just that I really never saw that much of him when Mother was alive, and when she was gone, he really never had much to say to me except to criticize. Really, I might just as well have been fostered out, for all that I saw of him. I knew Dent and Wendar better than I knew him! She sighed again. I must be a cold bitch if I can’t even mourn my own father.

  She heard footsteps on the stone floor outside just then, and the door creaked open. “So here’s where you’ve been hiding yourself,” said a harsh voice behind her. “Warrior bless! It’s like a cave in here! What are you doing, turning yourself into a bat?”

  “It has to be dark,” Kero explained without turning, wondering what had brought the formidable old fighter here. “A lot of herbs lose potency in the light.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” The Shin’a’in edged carefully into the narrow confines of the stillroom, and positioned herself out of Kero’s way. “My people don’t store a great deal, and that little only for a season or two at most. Don’t tell me you like it in here.”

  “Sometimes,” Kero told her. “It’s better than—” she bit her tongue to keep from finishing that sentence.

  “It’s better than out there, with the hens and chicks clucking disapproval at you,” the Shin’a’in finished for her. “I know what you mean. The only reason they keep their tongues off me is because they’re pretty sure I’ll slice those wagging tongues in half if I find out about it.” She chuckled, and Kero turned to look at the old woman in surprise. “We never have been properly introduced. I’m Tarma—Tarma shena Tale’sedrin, to be precise—Shin’a’in from the Hawk Clan. I’ve been your grandmother’s partner for an age, and I’m half of the reason your father disapproved of her. “

  “
You are?” Kero said, fascinated by the hawk-faced woman’s outspoken manner. “But—why?”

  “Because he was dead certain that she and I were shieldmates—that’s lovers, dear. He was dead wrong, but you could never have convinced him of that.” Tarma hardly moved, but there was suddenly a tiny, thin-bladed knife in one hand. She began cleaning her nails with it. “The other half of the reason he disapproved of her was because he was afraid of both of us. We didn’t know our place, and we could do just about any damned thing a man could do. But that’s a cold trail, and not worth following.”

  “Are you the reason we could get Shin’a’in horses to breed?” Kero asked, suddenly putting several odd facts together.”

  Tarma chuckled. “Damn, you’re quick. Dead in the black, jel’enedra. Listen, I’m sorry I was so hard on you, back on the road the other night. I was testing you, sort of.”

  “I’d—figured that out,” Kero replied. The knife caught the light and flashed; it looked sharp enough to wound the wind.

  The Shin’a’in nodded, a satisfied little smile at the corners of her mouth. “Good. I was hoping you might. I want you to know I think you did pretty well out there. About the only time you started to dither was after everything was over and done with. You know, you’re wasted on all this.”

  “All what?” Kero asked, bewildered by the sudden change in topic.

  “All this—” The Shin’a’in waved her knife vaguely, taking in the four walls of the stillroom and beyond. Kero hid her confusion by turning her attention to the salve, watching her own hands intently. “This life,” Tarma continued. “It’s not enough of a challenge for you. You’re capable of a lot more than you’ll find here. My people say, ‘You can put a hawk in a songbird’s cage, but it’s still a hawk.’ Think about it. I have to go beat some of those hired guards into shape, but I’ll be around if you need me.”

  And with that, she backed out of Kero’s sight, and vanished. One moment she was there, the next, gone; leaving only the door to the stillroom swinging to mark her passing.

  * * *

  “All right, you meatheads, let’s see a little life in those blows!” Ten men and women—those currently off-duty—placed their blows on the ten sets of pells as if their lives depended on it.

  Of course, their lives do depend on it.

  Tarma roamed up and down the line of hired guards, scowling, but inwardly she was very pleased. These were all reliable, solid fighters, with good references, very much as she and Keth had been early in their careers.

  The only difference was that these fighters were well into their careers. Ordinarily they had nowhere to go now but down.

  Because she’d been able to offer a packhorse apiece with half pay in advance, she’d gotten the cream of the available mercenary crop. None of them were going to be the kind of fighter that legends were made of, but for Lordan’s purposes they were far better. Most of them were in their middle years, looking for a post where they could settle down, perhaps even think about a spouse and children. That’s why they weren’t with a mercenary company—going out and fighting every year was a job for the young....

  And fools, she thought, which these gentlemen and ladies are not. “Put some back into it!” she shouted again, feeling a sense of deja vu. How many times had she shouted those same words, in this same courtyard?

  Only then, it was into young ears, not seasoned ones. These folks are well aware of the absolute necessity for practice, every day, rain, snow or scorching heat.

  Thirty seasoned fighters. That would be enough to give even Baron Reichert second thoughts. And one very special recruit....

  As middle-aged as the others, without a single thing to differentiate her from the rest. Even her color and stature—golden skin, and very tall for a woman—were not particularly outstanding among mercenaries. Hired swords came from every corner of the known world, and some places outside it; Beaker had been odder-looking than this woman. She acted no differently than any of the others, not looking for special status, nor making herself conspicuous. Tarma drilled this recruit as remorselessly as the rest, and paid her no more attention, and no less.

  Lyla Stormcloud was from the far south and west; past even the Dhorisha Plains. She was half Shin’a’in, with the gold complexion of her father and the black eyes and wandering foot of her mother, a Full Bard who had double the normal wanderlust of that roaming profession. Life with a nomadic Clan had suited her perfectly, and Tale’sedrin, made up as it was of orphans and adoptees, made her welcome there as she might not have been in a “pure” Clan. How they’d gloried in having a Full Bard with them.

  A Full Bard with another profession as well, the one she had trained in as a child—the skills and training of which she passed in turn to her daughter.

  Assassin.

  It’s a good thing the Clans didn’t know that until long after she’d been accepted on the basis of her Talent and current profession. And it’s a damned good thing for her that she admitted it before someone ferreted the information out on his own. But I’m glad it happened, especially now. Try and get an assassin past another assassin. Tarma furrowed her brow in thought, watching Lyla at her sword-work. Blessings on the Warrior, for sending her mother to Tale’sedrin, and a double blessing that Lyla was willing to pack up and move on my say-so.

  Lordan was in danger as long as Baron Reichert thought him vulnerable. If Tarma and her partner could stay here—well, nothing and no one was going to get past them. Now that Keth was no longer bound by the promises she’d made Rathgar, she could put mage-protections up that would stop any magical attack on her grandson short of an Adept-spell. And if Tarma could possibly have moved in here permanently—

  But she couldn’t, and knew it. There were other considerations, not the least of which was that she wasn’t as young as she used to be. And guarding a target from assassins was a young person’s job. That had been when she’d thought of Lyla. After that, it had been a matter of sending a mage-borne message via Keth to the shaman of Tale’sedrin—who just happened to be Kethry’s son, Jadrek. And then, when Lyla had agreed to come, some mysterious transaction involving the Tale’edras of the Pelagiris Forest had been negotiated via Jadrek to get her here. I’m still not sure how she got here as fast as she did. Those Hawkbrothers—they’ve got to have secrets of magic even Kethry and the other Adepts don’t know. Probably only the Clan shamans have any idea what they can do. And they aren’t telling, either.

  Even Lyla didn’t remember how she’d gotten here; she told Tarma that Jadrek had taken her to the forest edge—and the next thing she knew, she was walking through the open mouth of a cave near the Tower.

  Just as well; let them keep their secrets. I don’t think I want to know them.

  Lordan was now as safe as Tarma knew how to make him. Certainly safer than money could buy....

  Lyla was a pleasure to watch; wasting no effort, and certainly almost as good as Tarma in her prime. Better than Tarma was now. Not through fault of training or will, just old bones and stiff, scarred muscles, slower reactions and senses that were no longer as keen—So the world belongs to the young. At least there’re youngsters I’m glad to see have it. Like young Kero.

  She hoped she’d said the right things, neither too much, nor too little. Too much, and she might frighten the bird back to its nest. Too little, and she wouldn’t realize there was a great big world out here, and a whole sky in which to use her wings.

  If I’m any judge, she’s got the reactions and the instincts; all she needs is the skill and the strength, and she’ll put Lyla in the shade. She has it in her. She has the brains and the guts, too, which means even more—she can be more than even an exceptional merc with those. But if I push, she’ll rebel, or she’ll be frightened off.

  “Good!” she said aloud, and the sweaty fighters lowered their weapons with varying expressions of gratitude. “All right, ladies and gentlemen—off to the baths. On the quickstep—march!”

  I never thought I’d find myself here,
Kero thought for the hundredth time, watching the rest of the wedding guests over the rim of her goblet. She tried not to fidget; tried not to feel as if she was being smothered under all the layers of her holiday dress. I should be back in the kitchen.

  But she didn’t need to be in the kitchen, not anymore. Grandmother Kethry had seen to that. There was a proper housekeeper now—which was just as well, since Dierna was not up to handling the kitchen staff and servers the way Kero had. She was good at knowing what orders to give the housekeeper, what servants were best where, which was something Kero had never been able to figure out. She was a marvel at loom and needle, and Lordan was shortly going to find himself in possession of a thriving woolen-cloth trade if Dierna had anything to say about it. She was fair useless in the stillroom, but—

  But the housekeeper can do that, too.

  This housekeeper was an impoverished gentlewoman, found by Kethry by means of one of her many (and mysterious) contacts. Kero had a vague idea that there was a relative involved in some way.