A Sword from Red Ice

Let it freeze hard then. Aware that Longhead was waiting for her opinion, she searched for something comSting to say. And found she had nothing to give. Breaking away from him, she murmured, "You must do as Beade bids."

Raina made her way toward the stables and did not look back. She had no wish to see disappointment on the head keep's face.

The young groom whom she had spoken with during her last visit to the stables helped her saddle Mercy. Raina asked his name and was informed it was Duggin Lye. He was good with the chestnut mare, speaking to her in soft clicks as he tightened her belly cinch. Raina was glad to have him there, for Mercy knew all was not right with her mistress and was restive. Duggin's presence seemed to calm her, and she did not fight the bit "I took the creek trail myself this morning," Duggin said to Raina, making sure the nose strap was seated properly. "If you're wanting a fair run you couldn't do much better. The Oldwood's sparkly with ice."

Silent, she took the reins from him. The boy had probably spent most of the day alone with the horses and was eager to talk. How would he know that that Oldwood was not a word she loved to hear? She made an effort. "I believe I will go north instead."

Duggin Lye, who had to be all of sixteen and had the blackheads to prove it, looked at her with some wisdom. "North's best when you're needing to clear your mind."

Raina walked Mercy onto the court, mounted her, and trotted around the outbuildings. She could smell pigs in their sties, and the loamy sweetness coming from the dairyshed as the cows were being milked. Mercy trod frozen cow pats and clumps of hay into the snow. She was glad to be out and her head was up, but her ears kept flicking back toward her rider.

Deciding she would not think for a while, Raina kicked Mercy into a canter. They were clear of the outbuildings now and free to find a path north. Some old bit of wall stuck up above the snow and Mercy seemed keen to jump it so Raina gave the horse her head. It was then, in midair with her butt no longer in full contact with saddle leather, that Raina began to feel better. The landing was bracing and her spine felt it all the way up to her neck. All the old air ejected from her lungs and she had to fill them with new, outside air instead. This was what she needed. Too much inside, too many whispers, too many calls upon the ragged little bit of herself that was left. When chiefing got too much for Dagro he had simply taken off. A man could do that, go hunting and have everyone agree that it was a worthy thing and that when he got back he would be renewed. During the winter longhunt season Dagro might take off for weeks. He would share a tent with old Meth Ganlow, Merritt's husband, and the two of them would hunt during the day and get drunk as donkeys each night. There'd be dumb tricks—pants would be dipped in the lake and frozen, straight arrows replaced with ones fiendishly steamed into curves—there'd be earnest talk about the best way to make jerky, and someone would always end up getting lost in the woods, initiating the kind of heroic search and rescue that could be bragged about for days.

It was a release, Raina realized now. Dagro had both needed and deserved it. He did not lead the hunt. Even if he had possessed the expertise he wouldn't have wanted to. Let Tern Sevrance or Meth Ganlow do that.

Raina dug her heels into Mercy's belly, whipping her into full gallop. Snow sprayed as high as the saddle and year old saplings were crushed under hoof, releasing the scent of pine. Spying a trapping path running alongside the Leak, Raina guided Mercy northwest. The Leak was running; a thread of crystal clear water overhung by ledges of crackled ice. Tall, desiccated grasses clumped on the bank, and Raina could see peeps of green where the new year's growth had started. Mercy seemed to enjoy flattening them, even going so far as leaving the path to get to them, and this made Raina laugh. Poor plants. First they had to put up with late snows and sudden frosts, and now along comes a horse and squashes them. It was definitely better being Raina Blackhail than a stationary clump of grass.

She laughed even harder at that. And it felt good. Her fine wool cloak and dress were too skimpy for such icy conditions, and she had not thought to bring gloves, but it hardly mattered. Raina Blackhail had been Raina Kenrick once—and the Kenrick girl rarely dressed for the cold. "Don't be fussing her" Uncle Burdo would tell her mother. "As long as she keeps moving shell stay warm"