A Brother's Price

rolling pasture nervously. This was their main cattle field and thus, thankfully, bare of anything between the height of the short grass and the tall hickory trees. In a single glance, he could see that the pasture was clear of strangers. They would, at least, not be taken by sneak attacks. He looked back at the sprawling stone farmhouse, looking toy-sized on the hilltop.
    “‘I was thinking, Jerin, maybe we should just kill this soldier. Hold her under, let her drown, then take her up onto the bank. We’ll tell the Queens Justice that we did all we could, but she died anyway.”
    “Heria!”
    “We don’t know anything about this woman. She might be a murderer or a husband raider. We can’t just take her into the house, give her access to our men!”
    “No! You know what Grandmothers always said; the best way not to get caught for a crime is simply not to commit it. Besides, she probably has sisters, maybe close by. What if they found out we didn’t help her, that we hurt her? They could take us to the Queens Justice and strip the family of all possessions.”
    And legally, as a boy, he was a possession. “After we get her to the house,” he said, “you should ride quick to fetch the Queens Justice. Then go on to Brindles’ farm and tell Corelle what’s happened.”
    “I should go for Corelle first.”
    “There are only four of our sisters at the Brindles’ farm. You saw five riders. We don’t know how many more might be in the woods yet. I’d rather have a troop of Queens Justice here instead of our sisters.”
    “Don’t worry. If anyone tries for you, I’ll shoot them.” Heria put her rifle to her shoulder and pretended to shoot it. “Bang!”
    Jerin shook his head, wishing their mothers were home, or at least their elder sisters were nearer at hand. Corelle, and the sisters that looked to her, were all going to be in big trouble for leaving the farm unguarded.
     
    A woman in her early twenties lay faceup in the wide, shallow creek, red hair rippling in the water like flowing blood. A purple knot marked her forehead. The soldier wore a black leather vest over a green silk shirt and black leather pants. Rings graced every finger of her left hand, with the exception of the wedding finger, and a diamond-studded bracelet looped her left wrist. Her right hand remained soldier-clear of clutter.
    Jerin glanced about the creek bottom. The marsh grass, cattails, and ditch weed on the far bank had been trampled as if a great number of horses had ridden down into the creek, then back out again. A thick screen of brush cloaked the woods beyond the pasture’s stone wall, and jackdaws and chickadees darted through the branches, apparently undisturbed by humans too near their nests.
    Why had the riders tried to kill this woman? Were their reasons desperate enough for them to return?
    “Did the riders see you?” he whispered to Heria over the gurgle of water. “Do they know you were alone?”
    “I don’t know. I hid myself like Grandmas taught me.”
    Their grandmothers had been spies for the Queens. They had taught all their grandchildren, regardless of sex. how to be clever in war. Jerin wished they were alive and with him now; maybe they could decipher the dangers.
    Standing around guessing wasn’t solving anything. He pointed to the woman’s horse, a fine roan mare, eating grass along their side of the creek, saddle polished glossy and decorated with bits of silver. “Can you catch her horse, Heria?”
    “Easy as mud: dirt and water.” Heria moved off toward the horse, talking softly to it.
    Jerin scrambled down the steep bank into the water beside the soldier. He disarmed her first, undoing her sword belt buckle to tug free the belt and scabbard. He tossed it to Heria’s feet as she brought back the horse. Jerin found the woman’s fluttering pulse, then stooped lower to examine her forehead. Marked clear on her skin was evidence of what had struck her—a steel-shod truncheon. On her wrists, forearms, and shoulders were marks of other blows.
    Faced with the clear proof of attempted murder, fear became a cold, sharp-clawed beast skittering frantic inside of him. Jerin looked up, eyes to the woods again, ears straining.
    Chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee , called the little birds, flirting in the brush. Deeper into the woods, something unseen crashed in the bracken and then went still. Jerin bit down on a yelp of fear and levered the soldier over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He scrambled