by Lynn Kurland
She entered, then closed the door behind her purposefully, as if she indeed had many important things to do. She lit a lantern, then kept herself busy doing absolutely nothing for another few minutes until she was as certain as she could be that she wouldn’t be interrupted.
She carefully removed a stack of dusty, ancient saddle pads to reveal a very worn box full of half-used bottles of horse liniment. She looked at the nastiest of the lot but didn’t disturb it until she had made certain it hadn’t been moved by someone else. Finding everything to be as it should have been, she lifted the bottle and looked at what lay underneath it.
A key.
That key opened a lock that was found on a box that wasn’t found on her uncle’s property, a scheme that had been casually suggested to her a handful of years earlier by someone in town. She’d agreed just as casually that such seemed like a fine idea. The box in question, tended by that same trustworthy soul in town, was full of more silver than gold, but the modest collection of coins was hers, ruthlessly saved against a time when she might find it useful. She didn’t want to admit that she couldn’t imagine when such a day might come, but it had seemed a bit like having a loft stacked with a winter’s worth of hay. Security was nothing to be sneered at.
She deposited her trio of coins next to the key, then replaced everything in a way that left no indication that it had been moved. She sat down on a stool that still rocked despite the attempts she’d made over the years to file the legs to the same length. Her pay would be safe enough until she was able to get to town and put the coins where they needed to go. She took a deep breath, then let herself think thoughts that seemed so dangerous, she rarely entertained them. But since it had been that sort of day so far, she continued on with the anarchy.
She was going to get herself and her grandfather out of Sàraichte.
The truth was, she didn’t need a house by the sea. She wasn’t even sure she needed a house. All she needed was enough money to collect her grandfather from her uncle’s manor and spirit them both away to somewhere safe. Her grandfather’s frail condition demanded a place where she could find work and he could be cared for, but that was done easily enough. A town with a decent barn and a fair supply of women skilled in the arts of physicking would serve. Perhaps in time she might even find someone willing to try to heal him, for enough gold. She seriously doubted she would find anyone to do it out of the goodness of his heart—
A knock startled her so badly, she almost fell off her stool. She took a deep, steadying breath, then rose and opened the door. “Aye?”
Her head groomsman, Doghail, stood there. “Thought you should know that Fuadain’s in a temper,” he said in a low voice.
“When is he not?” she asked lightly.
“Aye, well, he seems to be in a particularly difficult mood today. You might want to keep that in mind.”
Léirsinn didn’t even consider arguing with that assessment. Doghail was a short, thin man who had spent the bulk of his life racing horses for this lord or that. He was wiry, malnourished, and canny as hell. The horses did his bidding without hesitation. She understood that. When he pulled her up with a pinky finger on her reins, she never hesitated to pause. If he said her uncle was in a temper, she was going to keep her ears forward—
She shook her head. Perhaps she had spent too much time in the company of horses. She was starting to think like one.
“I sense something afoot,” Doghail added. “He’s sacked half the lads for imagined slights.” He paused. “I just wanted you to know what was blowing your way so you’d be prepared.”
She stepped outside her closet and pulled the door shut behind her. “Where is he now?”
“Entertaining up at the house, but one of the kitchen lads scampered down to tell me that they’re almost finished with their port.”
“But ’tis barely noon,” she said in surprise. “Into their cups so early?”
“Aye,” he said grimly, “and if that doesn’t give you pause, I don’t know what will.”
She shook her head less in surprise than resignation. Her uncle was very fond of his drink. If he’d already been in a temper that morning, she almost hesitated to think what he would be in by the time he and his luncheon companion stumbled through her doors. She looked at Doghail.
“Where’s Slaidear?”
“At Himself’s elbow,” Doghail said in disgust. “Where else?”
Where, indeed? Why Fuadain had ever made Slaidear his stable master—nay, there was no point in revisiting that piece of stupidity because she knew exactly why her uncle had done the like. Master Slaidear might have known next to nothing about horses, but the man knew how to flatter a lord with mercurial moods.
She had complained about Slaidear’s lack of knowledge to a stable hand when she’d first arrived in Sàraichte—once. That lad, who had long since laid himself down in a mouldering grave, had put her some deep knowledge, as he would have said, and told her to keep her bloody mouth shut and her eyes and ears open. And she, a poor shivering, sniveling child of eleven summers, had had the wit to listen.
That had been almost a score of years ago and she had never once regretted forming that habit.
As it happened, in time she had managed to gain Slaidear’s trust. If he used her taste in ponies to secure his own place, so much the better. She was free to train what she liked whilst someone else was paying for it. There was a certain beauty in that, which likely said something about her that she didn’t want to examine too closely.
She looked at Doghail. “Any ideas what he’ll want to see?”
“His companion is a genteel gentleman,” Doghail said knowingly.
She laughed a little in spite of herself. “No money but quite a title, is that what you’re getting at?”
“Exactly.” He squinted back down the way. “I imagine we’ll have word from Slaidear at any moment on which horses to prepare. Somehow, I suspect they might be the same ones you would think of.”
“Funny thing, that,” she said. “Very well, let’s settle on a simple beast who wouldn’t mind a life in modest surroundings. If we flank him with a less desirable pair of nags, he’ll shine well enough.”
“Tell me which ones and I’ll ready them.”
She considered, named a trio of horses she thought might suit, then watched Doghail walk off to do what he did best. Unfortunately that left her with nothing to do but linger in the passageway and wait.
She wandered down toward the entry to the barn, leaned back against a handy wall, and contented herself with yet another recalculating of her funds.
Would that it took more time than it did.
She straightened immediately at the sight of her uncle marching purposely toward the barn, his guest in tow. She waited without shifting until he arrived, then strove not to flinch as he stopped in front of her.
“What are you doing lazing about?” he demanded.
She made him a small bow. “I was simply waiting here to attend your pleasure, as always, and await Master Slaidear’s instructions.”
“I should think so,” Fuadain huffed. He looked at his companion. “Come, Lord Aidan, and we’ll endure a bit of dust to see what Slaidear has produced.”
Léirsinn held back as her uncle and his obviously inebriated companion walked rather unsteadily into the barn. Slaidear looked at her quickly as he hung back behind the pair. She nodded ever so slightly and he continued on, obviously reassured.
She suppressed the urge to sigh. Her uncle was at least a bit lordly looking, his unsavory self aside. He was tall, with silver hair and a noble brow. Slaidear, on the other hand, was a short, round little fellow who looked as if he belonged on the edges of a tale about hard-working dwarves, not up to his ears in the demanding labor of overseeing a large barn full of extremely valuable horses.
Then again, he knew what to say and when to say it. Perhaps that made up
for his lack of wit.
She realized with a start that there were no stable hands rushing to go hold the horses Doghail had surely selected. There was only Doghail, standing at the gate to the arena, waiting for her with only one horse in tow. She cursed under her breath and walked swiftly down the aisle to meet him.
“No lads?” she asked, feeling a little breathless.
“Later,” he said, handing her the reins. “I’ll go tack up the other two. Save the best for last, aye?”
She nodded, put her questions aside, then led a perfectly serviceable but hardly spectacular gelding into the arena. A lad came skidding through the dirt to hand her the pair of gloves she’d apparently dropped in her haste, then backed away at a curse from Slaidear. If that one avoided a right proper sacking, she would be surprised. She consigned him to whatever fate awaited him without hesitation and turned her attentions to her own business.
It was obvious from the first turn she took about the arena that Fuadain’s luncheon companion wasn’t interested in a horse. He knew nothing about them and likely wouldn’t have been able to afford what he was looking at even if he had.
That wasn’t her affair, though, so she showed the first two ponies to their best advantage, because she couldn’t in good conscience do anything else. She swung up onto the back of the finest of the lot, knowing it was pointless to ride him, but it would at least save her the time of working him later—
“Doghail, you’ll ride the last one. Girl, get off him and let the man show us what he can do.”
Léirsinn didn’t move at first, but that was only because she’d spent the better part of her life never allowing herself to show any reaction to anything her uncle said. She took her time dismounting but didn’t dare exchange even a quick glance with Doghail as she fussed with the stirrups.
“Make haste, you stupid girl!”
Léirsinn bobbed her head toward her uncle. “Of course, my lord.” She handed Doghail the reins, then gave him a leg up. She put her hand on the gelding’s neck and bid him silently to be gentle. She was well hidden by the horse’s head, so she took a chance and looked up at Doghail.
He was white with what she never would have suggested might be called fear. His morning ale likely hadn’t agreed with him. The man had a reputation for having ridden horses that no one else would dare come close to; the pony he was on at present hardly qualified as uncontrollable. If he had, several years earlier, tempted fate one too many times and found himself fair trampled to death as a result, well, that sort of thing occasionally happened, didn’t it? It was understandable that he hadn’t been up on a horse since he’d managed to relearn to walk, something her uncle knew damned well—
“Put him through his paces, Doghail,” Fuadain boomed. “Surely you can manage that.”
Léirsinn didn’t contemplate murder often—very well, she thought about it every time she saw her uncle, but it seemed counterproductive to slay him only to find herself in a dungeon as a result. Better to let him live out his miserable life in peace. Perhaps one day he would face himself and realize what he’d done to those around him.
She put her hand on Doghail’s boot briefly, ignored the trembling she could feel there, then stepped away. There was nothing else to be done.
The gelding behaved perfectly in spite of the lump of man who simply sat on his back, no doubt concentrating only on not falling off. The horse showed his gaits because she clicked at him discreetly as he passed her. That, and he was a brilliant, reliable pony who likely could have even kept a fool like her uncle on his back.
Fuadain tired of his sport after a bit and suggested a return to his solar. He passed her and looked down his nose as he did so.
“Spend your afternoon shoveling,” he commanded. “’Tis all you’re good for, isn’t it?”
“Of course, my lord,” she said, keeping her eyes lowered. She felt the breeze from his hand as he attempted to cuff her and missed. She supposed it might have gone badly for her if his guest hadn’t laughed and pulled him along out of the arena. She remained exactly where she was until they had gone, then she ran over to where Doghail was still sitting atop his gallant steed.
He managed to get his feet out of the stirrups, dismount without falling on his face, then stumble over to the railing before he started heaving his guts out. Léirsinn pretended not to notice, biding her time by stroking a painfully soft horse’s nose and finally wrapping her arms around that sweet gelding’s neck in gratitude.
Doghail cursed his way back to her, then kept himself upright by means of a hold on the gelding’s saddle. He patted the horse, then looked at her.
“Don’t know how you put up with him,” he croaked.
“Fuadain?” she asked. “I suppose I manage, don’t I?”
“I would never tolerate what you do.”
She pursed her lips. “Of course not, but you have more courage than I.”
Doghail dragged his sleeve across his mouth. “Today, lass, I’m not sure what I have.” He shook his head, then squinted at her. “Thank you.”
“No need.”
“You have a way with beasts.”
She smiled. It was a conversation they’d had scores of times as she’d tried to hold on to the faint memories she had of her parents. “I understand my mother was fond of horses.”
“Her blood runs through your veins, obviously.”
“I believe it just might.”
He took the reins from her. “I’ll see to this one,” he said, his color starting to return a bit. “He deserves a few more oats than usual for not leaving me to make a fool of myself.”
“He had a care for you,” she conceded, “but what else could he have done? Your reputation precedes you.”
“Of course it does.” He shook his head. “Heaven knows what these ponies will be saying after this one here tells them what he’s seen of me this morning.” He paused, then nodded toward the arena opening. “I have the feeling Himself will be back after his guest is snoozing comfortably before the fire. Why don’t you take yourself off toward town and fetch me some liniment from the apothecary?”
She looked at him evenly. “You don’t have to protect me, you know.”
“You did me,” he said with a shrug. “Turn about, and all that. Get on with ye, gel. I’ll see to your chores.”
She considered refusing but couldn’t deny that a bit of freedom might be a good thing. She patted the gelding, thanked Doghail again, and left the barn with less regret than usual.
Her uncle was growing increasingly unreasonable, even she had to admit that. He had never managed to strike her save once or twice, a handful of years earlier, when he had caught her on the shoulder. She half suspected those times had been accidents, but he had seemingly taken a liking to how they had made him feel. Her respect for him, which had never been very great, had completely disappeared after that.
She had, out of necessity, grown very adept at staying out of his reach. She supposed she wouldn’t manage that forever, which was perhaps why she needed to find more coins than she was going to be able to earn on her own. She had to leave Sàraichte soon, and she couldn’t go without her grandfather.
She was sorely tempted to take one of those coins she’d hidden under filthy blankets, chuck it into the fountain in the midst of the village green, and wish with all her might for a Hero to come striding out of the gloom and rescue her from the unrelenting reality of her life—
And that would be exactly as far as any of it went because Heroes didn’t exist, her reality was what it was, and if she used one of her coins in such a stupid fashion, she would be unrescued, red in the face, and holding on to one less coin.
Truly, she had to get hold of herself.
She concentrated on where she was going only because she was desperate for some sort of distraction. She walked on the outside of the wall that surrounded the manor and its gardens—o
n the outside because only servants employed up at the house and family were permitted to walk on the inside and she was definitely not considered either of those. She had walked that path so many times she hardly thought about it any longer and she only looked at the house out of idle curiosity, not desperate longing.
The manor wasn’t an ugly place, but there wasn’t anything truly lovely to recommend it. Everything about it was designed to attract attention and lead anyone looking at it to believe that the lord who lived there was very important indeed. She thought it overdone and garish, but what did she know? In truth, she preferred a clean stable and a fast horse. She hardly cared where she laid her head and she had no desire to impress anyone who might be examining her flowerbeds for weeds.
She considered that for as long as it took her to leave the manor behind. She turned the corner toward town, then paused in mid-step. It wasn’t a lad with less-than-chivalrous thoughts on his mind, or a dog eyeing her leg purposefully, or even a clutch of nettles that left her frozen in place.
There was something there on the ground.
She took a step backward, made a fruitless grasp for her good sense, then surrendered and simply stared at what lay there before it. It was a hint of shadow where there should have been none.
That might not have seemed so strange save that it was barely past noon, there were no clouds in the sky, and there was nothing around her to cast any hint of darkness on the ground.
She frowned thoughtfully. She realized with a start that it wasn’t the first time she had seen something odd in the vicinity of her uncle’s house. When had it been—oh, aye. A pair of fortnights past. She’d seen something similar on the ground but dismissed it as her having had not enough sleep, because shadows cast on the ground by nothing at all, in broad daylight no less, were impossible.
She was tempted to step on it and see what happened but something stopped her. Good sense, perhaps. A finely honed sense of self-preservation, assuredly. She took a deep breath and walked around the patch of nothing, giving it a very wide berth.