(This is a fairly common song in Valdemar, although it originated several lands to the south.)

Kerowyn, Kerowyn, where are you going,
Dressed in men’s clothing, a sword by your side,
Your face pale as death, and your eyes full of fury,
Kerowyn, Kerowyn, where do you ride?

Last night in the darkness foul raiders attacked us—
Our hall lies in ruins below—
They’ve stolen our treasure, and the bride of my brother
And to her side now I must go
To her aid now I must go.

Kerowyn, Kerowyn, where is your father?
Where is your brother? This fight should be theirs.
It is not seemly that maids should be warriors—
Your pride is your folly; go tend women’s cares.

This is far more than a matter of honor
And more than a matter of pride—
She’s only a child, all alone, all unaided
Though foolish and reckless beside,
Still now to her aid I must ride.

Grandmother, sorceress, I need a weapon—
I’m one against many—and I am afraid—
For the bastards have bought them a fell wizard’s powers—
I can’t hope to help her without magic aid.

Kerowyn, granddaughter, into your keeping
I now give the sword I once wore
“Need” is her name, yes, and great are her powers—
She’ll serve you as many before—
Though her name be not found in men’s lore.

Grandmother, grandmother, now you confuse me—
Was this a testing I got at your hand?
Whence comes this weapon of steel and of magic
And why do you put her now at my command?

Kerowyn, not for the weak or the coward
Is the path of the warrior maid.

Yes my child, you’ve been tested—now ride with my blessing

And trust in yourself and your blade.
Ride now, and go unafraid!

THREES

Lyrics: Mercedes Lackey

Music: Leslie Fish

(Again: a similar song from the same region as “Kerowyn’s Ride” that migrated northward.)

Deep into the stony hills, miles from town or hold

A troupe of guards comes riding, with a lady and her gold

She rides bemused among them, shrouded in her cloak of fur

Companioned by a maiden and a toothless, aged cur.
Three things see no end, a flower blighted ere it bloomed,
A message that miscarries and a journey that is doomed.

One among the guardsmen has a shifting, restless eye

And as they ride, he scans the hills that rise against the sky

He wears a sword and bracelet worth more than he can afford

And hidden in his baggage is a heavy, secret hoard.

Of three things be wary, of a feather on a cat

The shepherd eating mutton, and the guardsman that is fat.

Little does the lady care what all the guardsmen know—That bandits ambush caravans that on these traderoads go.

In spite of tricks and clever traps and all that men can do

The brigands seem to always sense which trains are false or true.