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"
Raina kept moving, first along the stream and then north onto one of the trapping paths that led into the forest. Mercy was happy to run. When Dagro had puchased her as a filly from a horse trader at the Dhoone Fair he had been told she was "one-sixteenth Sull." Apparently this number had sealed the deal. Dagro had joked about it later, saying that it meant one of Mercy's ears and half a knee joint were Sullish, but Raina could tell he'd been secretly pleased. It meant that all of Mercy's offspring would be one in thirty-two parts Sull. Yet in the end he'd only let her dam the once. She was Raina's horse by then.
As they approached the first stand of oldgrowth pines, Raina slowed Mercy to a trot. Beyond those trees lay the great northern forest of Blackhail and you had to be in a certain mind and properly equipped to safely enter. An unlined wool cloak would not do. It was one thing to ride carelessly along meadowland. Another thing entirely to take to the woods. Glancing at the sky, she realized it would be dark within the hour and she needed to be heading back. For all she knew Merritt Ganlow was still fuming by the supply cart, wondering what had happened to the goosedowns Raina had promised to deliver four hours earlier.
And then there was Anwyn Bird. As Raina turned Mercy south she wondered what time constituted "supper." It would be after dark certainly. But whose supper exactly? Anwyn's Orwin's?
Raina thought she should get a move on, and kicked Mercy into a brisk trot. The top layer of snow hardened as the temperature dropped and every hoof fall made an explosive crack. It was easier at first to think about Longhead. Five days back she had asked the head keep to come to her if Beade took any further action concerning the Hailhouse. Today he had done just that. In return she had been short and dismissive, when perhaps she should have been grateful. Longhead was no friend of Beade's. Not informing her about the new ward and guidehouse had been a simple error in judgment, Longhead was Longhead: he wanted to get things done. He had come to her hoping she would take a problem off his hands so he could keep working and not have to worry about the distressing events happening in the clan. She had been no help to him. Raina blew air from her nostrils, cogitating. He had caught her at a bad moment. Tomorrow she would seek him out and see if there wasn't something they could do. With all the damage to the east wall, the broken well shafts, the disturbed underground springs, it would be regrettable, but hardly surprising, if the chiefs wife's chambers were to suddenly and unexpectedly flood.
Smiling softly, Raina patted Mercy's neck. Detecting a subtle shift in her rider's spirits, the mare tossed her head and executed some fancy footwork that took her sideways as well as forward. Raina had always wondered who had taught her that. Maybe it was in her Sull blood.
It was growing dark as they rejoined the path along the Leak. Raina forced herself to think of Anwyn, and found little to like about their conversation in the widows' wall. Anwyn Bird was her oldest and dearest friend. Even if she wanted to rid Blackhail of Stannig Beade it did not change the fact of her concern. That night after Raina had fled the chiefs chamber it had been Anwyn who banged on the door of her cell, Anwyn who demanded entry, Anwyn who had looked so murderous upon seeing Raina s inflamed face that Raina thought the clan matron might march through the roundhouse and punch Stannig Beade in the head. It was Anwyn who brought the salves and cool water, and informed people the next morning that Raina had a fever and might be abed for a few days.
It was Anwyn Bird, not Raina Blackhail who had to watch the bruise turn purple and black.
Raina raised her hand to her cheeck, touching the patch ofskin that had come in contact with Stannig Beade's fist. A slight tenderness still remained,
He has cowed you, Raina.
It was the truth, she had been cowed Rains had never told Anwyn what had happened in the Oldwood, but the clan matron must have suspected something. The evening after the wedding had taken place Anwyn had brought Raina her bride's cup in the greathearth. "What's done is done," she had said, handing Raina the traditional drink of milk, bittersweet and honey. "We'll just have to make the best of it."