A Sword From Red Ice (7 page)

Looking into his bloodshot eyes she wondered if
she detected some disapproval of her husband, Mace Blackhail. Above
all else Longhead was a man who liked to get things done, and Mace's
failure to reach a decision about the remains of the guidestone was
preventing Longhead from completing the most important task in the
clanhold: rebuilding the eastern wall. Part of Raina couldn't even
blame Mace. He was clan chief, not clan guide. He guarded men's
bodies, not their souls.

Inigar Stoop was dead, and he had neither trained
nor picked a successor. So who was left to save them?

It was a question that kept Raina awake at night,
sweating and turning in her bed. The gods had abandoned Blackhail,
and there was no clan guide to call them back.

Had Inigar realized the depth of his failure as
the first splinters from the guidestone punctured his heart? Raina
thought it likely that he had, and she felt some measure of pity for
him. He had been a difficult man and she had not liked him, but
during the last few years of their acquaintance she had found him
worthy of respect.

Aware that Longhead was still awaiting her
response, Raina made a decision. Gesturing toward the remains of the
guidehouse, she said, "I will speak with my husband in due
course."

She could tell from the slight shrinking of his
pupils that this answer did not satisfy him. She had chosen caution
and spoken as a good wife, and she could see now he had expected more
from her. He must have watched her this past week, she realized. Seen
how she had taken charge of caring for the wounded, setting up a
surgery in the dim and yeasty-smelling warmth of the oatshouse, and
arranging to have potions, wound dressings and medicinal herbs
brought in from every farmhouse within ten leagues. She had been the
one to decide that the stables should be housed in the old dairy shed
and that the horses be buried in the Wedge. When Anwyn had asked
where the dispossessed Scarpemen should be housed, Raina had not
deferred the decision to her husband; she was making arrangements for
their shelter even now. The same with the relocation of the hayloft
and a dozen other things. She had made all decisions herself.

The question of what to do about the remains of
the guidestone was different. She had no expertise here. No one did.
And although she recognized Longhead's query as an opportunity to
claim power she did not want to gain it at the clan's expense. There
were matters here too important for that. The future would be set by
the stone. Whatever became of its remains would be remembered by
every man, woman and child in this clan. History would record it,
rival clans would judge it, and scholars and holymen would mull over
its significance for a thousand years. Nothing less than the pride
and future of Blackhail was at stake.

So no. She would not decide the Hailstone's fate
single-handed, and if that disappointed Longhead then so be it. "Talk
to me tomorrow," Raina said to him, taking her leave. "I'll
know more then." Stepping smartly around a cord of logs, she
left him staring at the back of her head.

She felt a little breathless as she entered the
smoky dimness of the roundhouse. It took some getting used to, this
business of wielding power.

Two skunks and a handful of raccoons had been
spotted in the roundhouse this past week, and Raina noticed the scent
of animal musk as she made her way through the ruined east hall. It
was cold too, and air switched back and forth as the wind moved
through the wall. Oh, they had tarped and timbered it, but the
outside still got in.

How could it not? Seven days ago the Hailstone had
exploded and blown open the entire roundhouse. According to Hatty
Hare, who had been up early, intending to ride out from the
roundhouse to set traps, a giant fireball had rolled through the
guide corridor and out along the stables. Hatty had been knocked off
her feet. When she was found, three hours later, she was buried
beneath a foot of dust and char. Bailie the Red, who'd been riding
back from Duff's stovehouse when it happened, told a story of seeing
a flash of silver lightning split the northern sky. Raina herself had
seen the great mushroom cloud of dust rising from the guidehouse,
heard the whirr and snap of timbers as chunks of stone flooring
collapsed. The hole punched in the eastern wall wasn't that big
really—about fifteen feet by twenty—yet the wall was
three-feet-thick sandstone and the floor underneath had been unable
to cope with the weight.

The roundhouse was still finding its level. Just
last night part of the ceiling in the chief's chamber had collapsed.
Water was coming in from somewhere—Longhead pronounced it
likely to be a broken well system—and the lower chambers were
knee-deep in sludge.

worked harder than Anwyn Bird, no one was up
earlier or went to bed later, or did as much good for the clan. Gods
help you, though if you even suggested that she might need a helping
hand. Raina had taken so many scoldings over the matter that she now
left Anwyn to herself. Well, almost. Anwyn Bird was her dearest,
oldest friend and she could not stand by and watch her work herself
to the bone.

Merritt wrinkled her nose as Jebb dragged away the
carcass. "We've taken a vote," she said to Raina, wasting
no time. "The widows have decided to give up their hearth—but
only for use by Hailsmen, mind. We won't have no Scarpes near the
wall."

And so it continues. Raina took a deep breath,
orienting herself to deal with this newly delivered problem. Dagro
had once told her that in cities they had halls of learning where men
could study ancient histories, languages, astronomy, mathematics and
other wondrous things. He said it could take a decade to master a
discipline. Raina had thought it rather long at the time. Right now
she'd like to go there, and take all ten years to learn to be a
chief.

I will be chief. Two months ago she had spoken
those words out loud in the gameroom, and even though only two people
in the clan had heard them—Anwyn Bird and Orwin Shank—it
did not lessen their meaning. She had spoken treason against her
husband and chief, and when she thought of it now her skin flushed
with fear. Yet she could not and would not take it back.

Mace Blackhail was Dagro's foster son, brought
from Scarpe as an eleven-year-old boy. Dagro's first wife, Norala,
had been barren and a chief was always anxious to have sons. Yelma
Scarpe, the Weasel chief, had sent him one. Raina had never liked
him. She saw flaws in her new foster son that her husband had been
blind to. Mace was secretive, he arranged for others to take the
blame for his misdemeanors, and he had never given up being a Scarpe.
Dagro saw it differently. To him Mace could do no wrong. Mace was the
best young swordsman, the most promising strategist and a faithful
son. That blindness had killed Dagro in the end. Mace Blackhail had
planned the murder of his father and chief. Even now Raina did not
know what happened that day in the Badlands, but two things were
certain. Mace had ridden home from the slaughter and lied about the
outcome, and one about that day in the Oldwood and everything she had
worked for might come undone.

Making an effort, Raina said, "When I spoke
with Biddie about using the widows' hearth to house clansmen I recall
no talk of barring Scarpes."

"Well you wouldn't, Raina," Merritt
replied, cool as milk, "as it was my idea to bar them."

Of course it was. Raina had known Merritt Ganlow
for twenty years. Her husband, Meth, had shared a tent with Dagro on
that last fateful longhunt, and the two men had been friends since
childhood. Merritt had a sharp mind to go with her green eyes, and a
prickly way about her. She had taken to widowhood with both zeal and
resentment, and had made no secret of the fact that she disapproved
of Raina's hasty marriage to Mace.

"You have a habit of putting me in a
difficult position, Merritt Ganlow," Raina said to her.

"You have a habit of being in a difficult
position, Raina Blackhail. All I do is point it out."

She was right, of course. The damage to the
roundhouse meant that both Hailish families and Scarpe ones needed
new places to stay. The widows' hearth was, in Raina's opinion, the
finest hall in the entire building. Housed at the pinnacle of the
great dome, it had half a dozen windows that let in light. Someone
had painted the walls with yellow distemper and someone else had
thought to lay wooden boards across the floor. It was a pretty
chamber, airy and full of sunlight. Unlike any other room in this
dour, lamp-lit place.

Take a hold of yourself, Raina warned herself. It
was too late to do anything about where she lived now. The Blackhail
roundhouse had been built for defense, not beauty, and she had known
that from the moment she first spied its hard, drum-shaped walls all
those years ago when riding across the Wedge on the journey from
Dregg. What she needed to concentrate on now was space. Families had
taken to setting down their bedrolls in corridors and storage areas,
and lighting cook-fires and oil lamps wherever they pleased.

Raina glanced around the great half-moon of the
entrance hall. A scrawny boy was chasing an even scrawnier chicken up
the stairs, two Scarpewives dressed in black tunics and black leather
aprons were fussing around a vat full of potash and lye, a handful
of tied Hailsmen had claimed the space under the stair as a gaming
room and were lounging in a circle, downing flat ale and throwing
dice. On either side of the greatdoor burlap sacks stuffed with
bedclothes, pots and pans and other household items had been stacked
ten feet high against the wall.

It would not do. Merritt and her sisterhood of
widows knew that too and when Raina had approached them about giving
up their hearth they had expressed willingness to do so. Only now,
two days later Merritt Ganlow had tied some strings to the deal.

"You like the thought of Scarpes in the
widows' hearth as much as I do," Merritt said, her voice
creeping higher. "The widows' wall used to mean something in
this clan. You needed a bracelet of scarred flesh to stand there."
Yanking up the sleeve of her work dress, Merritt thrust out her left
wrist toward Raina. The widows' weals were plain to see. Ugly purple
scars that would not be allowed to heal for a year. Every woman who
lost a husband in Blackhail cut herself, scoring a circle around each
wrist with a ritual knife known as a grieveblade. Raina had always
thought it a barbaric practice, hailing back to the Time of the First
Clans, yet when Dagro had died she had begun to understand it. The
pain of cutting her flesh had been nothing—nothing—compared
with losing Dagro. Strangely, it had helped. When the blood pumped
from her veins and rolled around her wrists she had felt some measure
of relief.

To Merritt she said, "You cannot blame Scarpe
widows for not practicing the same rituals as we do. Their pain is
still the same."

Merritt was contemptuous. "They tattoo the
weals—dainty little lines inked in red. And they heal within a
week. Then what? They're like bitches in heat. Run off and remarry so
fast it's as if they never gave a damn for their first husbands all
along. And I tell you another thing—"

"Hold your tongue," Raina hissed. She
was shaking, frightened by how close she had come to slapping Merritt
Ganlow. He raped me! she wanted to scream. That's why I remarried so
fast. Mace Blackhail took me by force and told everyone I agreed to
it. They believed him. And if I hadn't married him I would have
forsaken my reputation and my place in this clan.

Merritt glanced around nervously. Too late she
realized her raised voice had drawn unwanted attention her way. The
men under the stairs had halted their gaming and were looking with
some interest at the head widow and the chief's wife. The two
Scarpewives—pale women with dyed-black hair and lips stained
red with mercury, stared at Merritt and Raina with unconcealed
dislike.

"Open up! Warriors returning."

Three hard, deep raps against the greatdoor
followed the shouted command, and all attention shifted from Raina
and Merritt to the half ton of force-hardened rootwood that barred
the Hailhold's primary entrance. Straightaway, things started
happening. Mull Shank appeared out of nowhere and together he and one
of the young Tanner boys began lifting the iron bars from their
cradles. The cry "Warriors returning!" was relayed through
the entrance hall and up the stairs toward the greathearth. Anwyn
Bird, who had the ears of a deer and the uncanny ability to know
exactly when her strong beer was needed, emerged from the kitchen
cellar, hoisting a two-gallon keg on her shoulder.

As the door was pushed back on its greased track,
Raina turned to Merritt Ganlow. "So you're set on opening the
widows' hearth solely to Hailsmen?"

Merritt's face had slackened somewhat during all
the excitement, and for a moment Raina hoped that it might stay that
way. It wasn't to be. Merritt's mouth tightened and her chin came up.
"I'm sorry, Raina, but I won't change my mind. This is the
Hailhold, not the Scarpehold, and if someone doesn't make a stand
against it we'll all be wearing the weasel pelts before we're
through." With that, the clan widow stalked away, staring down
the two Scarpewives as she passed them.

She was bold and she was right. Raina raised a
hand and rubbed her temples. Her head was beginning to hurt. Of
course she agreed with Merritt. How could she not? As she stood here
waiting to see who would come through the door, she could smell the
foreign cookery, see the weasel-pelted Scarpe warriors gathering to
discover who had returned and why, and feel the oily smoke from their
pine-resin cook stoves passing through the membranes in her lungs.
Now was not the time to take action against them, though. Why
couldn't Merritt see that? The Hailstone had exploded, taking the
heart of the clan with it. The Hailhouse was no longer secure. There
was no clan guide. Blackhail was at war with Bludd and Dhoone, and
right now, like it or not, most warriors were loyal to their chief.