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which she knew she couldn’t answer.
    After breakfast she went to her room and rolled her bag of silver, the wolf skin and some clothes in a blanket, to make a bedroll. It seemed to her that the gods’ “soon” might mean very soon, and she had better be ready. She kissed her parents goodbye before she went to the forest. They were surprised; kisses were for bedtime.
    She grinned at them reassuringly. “Just felt like it.”
    They were so surprised they didn’t think to ask where she was going with her blanket. She crossed the stream at the bottom of their garden and headed for the forest. The roan was waiting for her, or at least waiting at the end of his tether, with his head high and his ears pricked. She stashed the bedroll and silver inside the cave then greeted him gently, stroking her hand down his neck, feeling very fragile next to his warm strength.
    “Gods,” she said, looking at his broad back and powerful rump. “Let’s hope you’re a good-natured fellow, because you’ll have to be patient with me.”
    She contemplated the saddle. Not only did it look complicated, but it was branded with the warlord’s mark. If she was found on the roan, she could claim that she had found it wandering in the forest, but if it had the warlord’s saddle on it, she would be branded herself, as a thief. Or worse. Horse stealing was a garoting crime. So she left it aside with a feeling of relief. She didn’t like the idea of having straps and buckles and harness on the roan. It felt wrong to tie up a fellow creature that way, like putting him in prison.
    The blanket from under his saddle wasn’t marked, so she slid that over him and then looked at the bit and bridle. It had a nasty look, all steel and sharp edges. The roan’s mouth had calluses at the edges, marks of old wounds. She remembered the arrow in the wolf’s side and threw the bridle away. The horse startled back a little when it hit the ground with a jingle.
    “Shh, shh, now,” she said, using the same tone she used with the sick lambs and kids she nursed back to health. “It’s all right, everything’s all right . . .”
    She ran her hands over him, noting the marks beneath the hair and hating the warlord’s man even more when she realized they were scars from whip and spur.
    “Nothing to fear here, sweetheart,” she crooned. She undid the tether and gathered it up. It was tied loosely around his neck and she used it to pull him over to a large rock.
    “Now I know you could get rid of me with just a shake of your rump,” she said, climbing on top of the rock, “but how about you don’t? Let’s see what we can do together, you and I.”
    She mounted carefully and adjusted herself on the blanket, pulling up the skirt she had worn over her breeches so that she sat comfortably. Then she leaned forward and undid the tether, stuffed it in a pocket and took a deep breath. How high she was! How far it seemed to the ground. The roan’s hide was warm, even through the blanket. He seemed as solid as the rock she had climbed from.
    And here I sit
, she thought, smiling,
looking like a frog on a stone, with no idea what I’m supposed to do.
    “Up to you, horse,” she said. “Let’s go.”
    She clicked her tongue as she had before. The roan’s ears flicked back in response. She did it again and squeezed his sides, very gently, with her legs. It felt like trying to squeeze a tree trunk, but the roan walked forward, then stopped. She squeezed again, a little harder, and he began to walk with more confidence, down the hill.
    Excitement spiraled up from her stomach. She squeezed again. The roan broke into a trot. Bramble could feel her balance going and windmilled her arms, but she slid off sideways, anyway, right into a patch of nettles. She wanted to shout and curse, but she bit it back in case she frightened the horse, the completely untethered horse, into running.
    She dragged herself up, thanking the gods for her breeches. The roan was standing,