The Raven's Moon Read Online Free PDF Page A

Rowan's younger brother was suspected in the matter when they had appointed Rowan to the task of finding the spies. Most Scottish Border officers were related to reivers, or were reivers themselves. King James and his advisers believed that such men could best discipline the wild Borderers. Despite the thievery, feuds, and favoritism that continued among many of the officers, the plan was moderately successful.
    Smiling grimly as he rode through the soaking rain, Rowan decided that the post suited him well after all. The notorious Black Laird of Blackdrummond was now deputy to a Kerr. He enjoyed that irony, especially where it concerned a Kerr; that family had feuded with the Scotts for generations.
    Rowan halted his horse to scan the dreary rain-soaked blur of rounded hills and low, gloomy clouds. In the distance, he recognized the ancient ruin of Lincraig Castle, a pile of broken stone and cobwebbed passages that had been built by an ancestor of his own branch of the Scotts.
    Blackdrummond Tower lay fewer than two miles north, past the broad hill that stretched beyond the old ruin. Darkness would arrive before he did, but he would be home soon.
    The bay horse whickered softly and pricked his black-tipped ears forward, clearly uneasy.
    "What is it, Valentine?" Rowan asked. "Do you sense the ghosts in that old keep? Settle, lad. They will not harm us." The horse stepped restively to the side. Rowan stilled him and sneezed again, a loud, ripping snort that startled his horse. Patting the bay's neck reassuringly, he urged him forward, but the stallion shifted sideways and whickered.
    "Ho, Valentine," Rowan said softly. "Phantoms, hey? I doubt you'll see any reivers in this rain." But he felt a prickling sense at the back of his neck, as if someone watched him. Narrowing his eyes, he turned slowly.
    Silhouetted on a hill not far from Lincraig, a single horseman sat stone still. Rowan could make out a windblown black cloak and hood and a black horse, but rain and distance obscured other detail. He saw no glint of helmet, breastplate, or lance. After a moment, he glimpsed another rider behind the first.
    Through misty sheets of rain, the horsemen cantered down the slope and headed across the moor. Snapping the reins, Rowan leaned forward. Valentine obliged him with a galloping stride.
    Wind tore the hood from his head as Rowan looked around, half expecting to see riders converging from other directions, an old reiver's trick. But no one else was there.
    Border reivers would not bother with a lone horseman on a highway unless they hunted a specific man for a blood feud. And most of the reivers he had ever known would have stayed home on such a wet evening. Even those who might hunt members of the Scott family.
    Despite the increasing rain, he urged Valentine to a faster pace, wary of the slippery road. The deep thunder of the bay's hoofbeats mingled with the steady beat of the rain. Rowan risked another backward glance.
    The huge black, with its mysterious rider, had reached the highway and now galloped after Rowan in rapid, pounding pursuit, ahead of his companion. Rowan glimpsed a face, pale and ghostly, swathed in a black hood before he turned to guide Valentine.
    Scraps of tales from his childhood tumbled through his mind—phantom riders in the dead of night, ghosts eight feet tall, specters who waylaid travelers. One man, a tale went, had been frightened to death when a ghostly Scott had loomed up along the Lincraig road a long time ago.
    Rowan wondered briefly if the haunts of Lincraig rode behind him. But since his ancestors had not found cause to harass him before this, he doubted that they would begin now.
    This rider was only a flesh and blood highway robber, one foolish enough to ride out in a heavy storm to steal a purse. Border reivers would not stoop to such demeaning activity. He doubted that even a ghost would bother with the trouble of it.
    He looked back again. The rider came on, never faltering, never slowing,