Oathblood v(vah-3 Read online

  Lauren crossed the room unerringly, even in the darkness. There was no doubt that the wind had turned; now it blew full against the shutters of his room, and there was a gentler, wetter scent to it, where it leaked in past the leaded glass window-panes, than there had been this morning. He put his gittern into the stand by touch and knelt to blow the fire to flame.

  In the ten years he'd spent winters here, Lauren had never seen anything to make Kemoc this concerned. Forst Reach was a prosperous and peaceful holding. Spring plowing, he wondered again. Why should he have compared it to a coming battle? Just how difficult could spring plowing be? He realized that he was not country-wise enough to know everything about life on the land, but surely the weather couldn't become that vicious in the spring or he'd have heard something of it by now.

  It was as he thought that -- though he did not realize it at the time -- that he got his first clue. For on the wings of the warming wind came the squeal of an angry stallion from the stable.

  Lauren listened to the horse telling the world that he was ready to take on all comers, mare or competitor, and chuckled. No doubt; even the beasts recognized the turning of the season. And since Kemoc had gone coy, he might as well get to sleep; he'd find his itch of curiosity eased all in good time.

  Two days later, the last trace of snow was gone, and although the air was chilly and the breeze brisk, it was no longer so bone-chillingly cold. It was time for the first plow to cut the first furrow, while the earth was still damp, but not muddy. Right after breakfast, Kemoc had brought Lauren out to the back of the barns where the harnessing took place, and the sounds of angry horses had rung through the air even before they reached the yard in front of the barn. Now Lauren stared at a pair of fighting, kicking geldings -- geldings, not stallions! -- being dragged to their harness by two sturdy plowmen, and felt his eyes widening.

  "Spring plowing," said Kemoc with resignation. "There you have it, the sum and total of our problem."

  "But-but -- I thought plowhorses were, well, docile," Lauren protested, trying to reconcile the fact that he knew those horses had been gelded with the fact that they were acting like fighting stallions. The first horse had been dragged to his appointed place and with two people holding his bridle, a third was managing to get a harness on him. The second had already kicked his harness off, and was trying to bite the first horse, whose ears were back and whose yellowed teeth were bared.

  "They are," Kemoc replied heavily. "Everywhere but here. Come along, old lad. I'll show you what we're up to here. This is all due to a decision made by one of my ancestors, and the idea was a sound one, but -- well -- there are some problems with the execution, you might say."

  Farther along the row of horses being readied for the field, a pair of mares with foals at heel were also being harnessed up. The foals were clever, nippy little demons, who obviously resented the fact that their meal-producers were being interfered with. The men harnessing the mares had to keep them off by main force, and wore leather shirts to protect against bites. "We're famous for our Ashkevron breed of war horse," Kemoc explained. "There was a horse -- allegedly a Shin'a'in warsteed -- called the Gray Stud. He was the foundation-stallion; we took him to our hunters and plowhorses -- in the first generation. He was a fighter and he was smart, everything you'd want in a war horse, but he wasn't big enough to carry a man in full plate armor. We were looking for intelligence and fighting spirit from him, agility and speed from the hunters, and size and strength from the plowhorses. We crossed the sons from the hunters to the daughters from the plowhorses, and that gives us our basic warhorse. We continue crossing the best of the best; geld everything we don't use at stud, and sell the ones we won't breed. Trouble is, we can't afford to keep horses around eating their heads off and doing nothing but breeding, so everything is broken to harness and plow except the breeding stallions. Which makes spring plowing time -- exciting. The geldings all retain every bit of a stallion's fight. That's why people pay a small ransom for them."

  "I can see that," Lauren replied, watching with stunned amazement as a gelding -- another gelding! -- left alone for a moment in a loose box, proceeded to attempt to batter the thing to splinters in an effort to get at the gelding tied to the outside of it.

  "The Gray's temper went hand-in-hand with his intelligence and both traits bred true, which makes them finely-honed killers on the battlefield, but no joy in harness," Kemoc continued glumly. "Most of the year you can handle them, but spring brings out the worst in them. There'll be broken bones before the day's over."

  And before the day was over, Lauren saw Lord Kemoc's prediction proved true. One pair of geldings decided to go over a stone fence, plow and all, and hung the plow up on the top. A foal ripped out a hank of one plowman's hair (roots and all) in fury when the man wouldn't unharness his dam and tried to separate them. Two more geldings too intractable to be harnessed in a team with anything saw each other and conceived an instant hatred for one another; they dragged their plows and plowmen with them across the width of two fields to meet in the middle in a furious clash that left both plows in splinters. And one of the breeding stallions broke out of his field to get at a harnessed mare, which incident resulted in the first broken arm of the season.

  "It could have been worse," sighed Kemoc at the end of the day, as he and Lauren shared a bit of bread, cheese, and beer. "It could have been a broken skull."

  "I hope you'll forgive me for asking the obvious, but haven't you tried breeding something with a good temper into the line?" Lauren asked.

  "Oh, we've tried, but the Gray Stud's temper always comes through." Kemoc shook his head. "I've never seen anything like it. People want the geldings as war horses, there's no shortage of takers for them, but by the gods, it gets hard and harder to survive this season every year! And breeding season's no festival either. The mares fight back even when they're hard in season, often as not, and there's damage all around before they get separated from the stallion."

  Lauren pondered this for a moment. "It -- really isn't very funny, is it?" he said. "I mean, it sounds funny at first, but people are getting hurt."

  "And it's only damned good luck that no one has gotten killed," Kemoc agreed. "How long before my people start refusing to plow with these beasts? What will we do then? We can't afford to keep one herd of plowhorses and one herd of warhorses, the damned things eat too much."

  Lauren didn't say anything then, nor did he mention that he had an idea even when he left Forst Reach to return to his duties at Haven and the Court - but he had made up his mind to try and do something to solve Kemoc's problem before the next plowing season.

  * * *

  Cold rain drummed on the roof of the indoor riding arena, and Tarma shena Tale'sedrin blessed the break in the weather that had allowed her to send her young pupils home for summer holidays before the weather turned this ugly. She'd sent them off a bit early this year, in no small part because they'd gotten an early start last fall, and it hadn't seemed fair to keep them away from home longer than usual.

  And besides, she'd had a particular project in mind that she didn't want an audience for -- the very project that kept her in the arena at this very moment.

  Tarma already had her hands full and didn't really need anything to distract her when one of the servants edged nervously up to the fence intended to keep spectators out of the riding arena. She spared a moment to glare at the hapless servant, silencing him before he had a chance to speak, and turned her attention back to seven-year-old Jadrie, Kethry's eldest.

  As blonde as her mother, as blue-eyed as her father, young Jadrie was a pretty child who threatened to become a beauty. Fortunately, it hadn't occurred to her that beauty was a cause for vanity, and neither parent had any intentions of letting her know that fact. Today she wore her oldest, most practical clothing of well-worn woolen tunic and breeches, and scuffed riding boots; she had her hair done up in a practical tail, and looked very much as her mother must have at her age.

  This was a special d
ay for her. Tarma had judged her old enough for a horse of her own this year -- and in Shin'a'in terms, that meant something of great and specific significance -- nothing less than a rite of passage.

  Jadrie had been carefully coached for all the winter months in the Shin'a'in art of horse-talking, and now she was putting her new knowledge to the test with an unbroken, green filly, three years old and fresh off the Plains and the Tale'sedrin herds. If she really had learned her lessons correctly, the young filly would be carrying her willingly by the end of the day. If she hadn't, Tarma would take over and tame the horse herself, and Jadrie would go back in humiliation to her fat little pony for another year.

  A little harsh on the child, maybe -- but better that than spoil horse and child together. There's no second chances on the Plains, and it's never too early for a child to learn that.

  But things were going very well, so far. The tiny blonde child had the sorrel filly pacing in a circle with her at the center, keeping her going with gentle tosses of a lead rope, making it land just behind the horse's moving feet. As the little girl flicked her soft rope at the heels of the filly, watching the horse with such intensity that her blue eyes shone, the horse turned her near-side ear to catch the girl's murmurs of encouragement.

  Another round of the circle, and the filly dropped her head, flicking out her tongue at the same time. Jadrie dropped her eyes back to the horse's shoulders, then to her rump. The filly dropped her head further, chewing at nothing. That was the signal Jadrie was waiting for, and Tarma with her.

  Right, girl. Remember your lessons. The filly's saying, "I don't want to run in a circle, I'd like to stop. Can't we eat together and be herdmates?" Don't wait for a second invitation.

  Jadrie coiled up the rope and let the filly slow and stop, then walked toward her. The filly started to take a single nervous step away, but before she could, Jadrie looked away from her, then turned away, making chirruping sounds.

  Good, good. You're doing everything just right. Keep her soothed, look at her, but not directly. Invite her into your herd.

  The filly stepped tentatively toward the little girl, then stopped again. Once again, Jadrie faced her, then turned away, looking back at the filly briefly over her shoulder out of the corner of her eye. This time the filly approached further, one slow step at a time, until she stopped, not quite coming as far as Jadrie's shoulder.

  "Good girl!" Jadrie crooned. "That's right, pretty girl! Come on, then-"

  Still murmuring, Jadrie walked slowly away. After a moment of hesitation, the filly followed.

  Tarma grinned. Jadrie was going to be the envy of her siblings this summer; there was no doubt that she'd mastered all of Tarma's coaching in horse-talk. The Shin'a'in didn't break horses, they spoke to them, working with their own body language and instincts to convince them that their would-be riders weren't two-legged, horse-eating predators, but were potential partners. With nothing more than hands, mind, voice, a blanket, and a soft rope, any Shin'a'in over the age of ten could have even the wildest horse carrying him willingly in less time than it took to bake a loaf of bread. And since Kethry's children -- or, more properly, those who chose the life -- were to become Shin'a'in in everything but looks, they were going to have to learn horse-talking.

  Unless she changed her mind drastically when she grew older, Jadrie would be the first of the renewed Clan of Tale'sedrin. Right now, Jadrie wanted nothing more than to live her life on the Plains; in fact, this last year she'd spent her first autumn fostered with a family of Clan Liha'irden before returning to Kethry's Keep with the first snow, and had gloried in every moment. This little test only proved that she had everything in her to prove to the satisfaction of even the sternest of Clan Chiefs and Shamans that she had the true spirit of a Shin'a'in.

  In short order, Jadrie's filly had accepted the rope around her neck, then the blanket on her back, then Jadrie herself on the filly's back with nothing to "control" her but a crude halter made of the rope. As the little girl trotted the filly gleefully around the ring, blonde tail bouncing with the movement of the horse, Tarma turned her attention to the servant.

  The man was watching Jadrie with his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide with shock. Tarma snapped her fingers at him to break him out of his trance. "Well?" she said, a little impatient. "What was so important that you had to come down here to interrupt a lesson?"

  He stared at Tarma and gulped. "What sorta witchcraft be that?" he asked.

  "None whatsoever," she countered. "It's nothing more complicated than paying attention." But she really didn't expect the man to believe her, and it was clear that he didn't. The servants that had come with this place were a mixed bag of good and bad, and the bad tended to be ignorant, superstitious, and foolish rather than of ill-intent. Jadrek was gradually replacing the bad ones, but it was slow going. "So?" she repeated. "What sent you down here?"

  "There's a man t'see you, m'lady," the fellow said diffidently. "From King Stefarisen. He's with Lady Kethry."

  From Stef? Huh. She made a shooing motion with her hand. "Well, get back up to the house and tell them I'll be there as quickly as I can."

  She pointedly turned her attention back to Jadrie; the servant waited a moment longer, but when it was obvious that she wasn't going to say anything more, he took himself and his message out.

  Tarma sighed; the fellow was one of the ones due for replacement, and obviously Jadrek hadn't found anyone with his skills and good common sense. It took a certain sturdiness of character combined with a stolid acceptance of anything that came along to work out as a servant at the Keep. As a consequence, they always seemed to be a little shorthanded.

  Can't really blame people for getting spooked around here, Tarma reminded herself. If it isn't the barbarian, raw-meat-eating Shin'a'in leading her pack of male and female hooligans in mock wars, it's Lady Kethry's mage-students blowing up storms or setting things afire or conjuring up weird beasts out of the Pelagirs. And if it isn't either of those things, it's Lady Kethry's own brood wreaking some hellishness or other!

  There'd be more mischief, that was sure, now that Jadrie had her very own, grown-up horse. The others would be all over themselves coming up with some prank to counter her new-won glory. Tarma expected to hear tales of woe from the village any day now, of sheep turned interesting colors, or puppies trained to herd chickens, or some strange contrivance powered by a kidnapped and irritated billy goat positioned at the well, a contraption designed to bring up water with no effort. And whatever it was that had happened would all be well-intentioned, meant to help, but the end result would be to scare the whey out of the long-suffering villagers.

  Eventually, she supposed, they'd get used to it. But the youngsters had only been at this "helpful" stage for a couple of years, and it would probably take a couple more before that happened.

  Jadrie, at least, would be well-occupied for the spring, and the first day of summer would be the signal for the annual trek to the Plains, which would at least get the children away from the village for the all-important summer growing season. The Liha'ir-den found the little ones' pranks amusing, sometimes even hilarious, and were not at all taken aback by them.

  They'd howl with laughter at sheep with pre-dyed wool. And it wouldn't matter what mad color the pranksters painted the woolies, there's not a color in the rainbow that my people don't like.

  :feh. I know,: said a voice in her head. :You'd think that after a few centuries they'd have developed a little taste.:

  Tarma disdained to reply to Warrl's jibe; she had more important things to concentrate on. Jadrie had begun guiding her mare through more complicated moves than simply trotting in a circle, and she wanted to pay close attention to the behavior of both horse and rider.

  But there were no problems, none at all. The filly moved well and willingly, head and ears up, tail flagged, and although Jadrie still wore her look of intense concentration, it was overlaid with an expression of intense joy. Tarma knew exactly how she felt; she'd felt that way
herself when she'd tamed Kessira. Probably every Shin'a'in child felt that way after taming a horse for the first time -- it was a little like magic, and altogether thrilling to have something that large accept you and work with you on its own terms.

  Finally Jadrie brought her horse to a neat halt, a few paces away from Tarma, and looked expectantly at her teacher. Tarma gave her a grin of approval, and the smile Jadrie flashed back at her lit up her face.

  "Good job, kitten," Tarma approved. "Now, go cement your friendship with a little sweet-feed. You've worked her enough for today, and tomorrow, if the weather's good, we'll move outside."

  Jadrie nodded, her tail of blonde hair bobbing with enthusiasm, and slid down off the filly's back with great care to avoid startling her. With a hand on the horse's shoulder, she led her new prize off to the stable, where the filly's good behavior would be rewarded by something the grass-fed beast had never yet tasted -- a sweet treat of treacled grain. Then she'd be rubbed down with a soft cloth, although she hadn't been worked up enough to break a sweat -- it was the contact that mattered. Jadrie had groomed enough beasts by now to know all the "good spots," and she'd be sure to scratch every one.