Redfist glanced at Emrath. Her cheeks were vivid with the cold, her head lifted proudly. The crowd became a mouth, spreading around a piece of solidified sugar slightly too large for it. They jostled, the few who accidentally stepped onto the speckle-stone pulled back by their fellows and chided in whispers.
“Are ye certain, Emrath?” Redfist sounded…tentative? For perhaps the first time since I had picked his pocket, he did seem somewhat uncertain.
It suited him. His calves, pale and furred with red glinting into gold, were also stipple-gemmed with melted ice.
Emrath Needleslay smiled rather bitterly. “I am the Keeper of the Stones.” She stripped her thick knitted gloves away, her large, finely modeled fingers gleaming slightly with sweet oil. “If you are determined, Rainak, I can be no less.”
Again, I almost liked her, despite her insults and her disdain. D’ri pulled on my hand; I stepped close to him. The prickling, buzzing discomfort intensified. It was the same sensation that kept me away from the witch outside Vulfentown, with her creaking, cawing birds and her slatternly, high-piled, grey-curled hair. She had Power, and plenty of it, and why she chose to live outside a Freetown and occasionally sell bits of dice-luck or darker things was no concern of mine. Witches did what they willed, or as they must, and we avoided each other. Or at least, we had all during my travels.
Now I was thinking I could have mastered my instinctive avoidance and learned a thing or two from one of that secretive sisterhood and their ways, hidden as the Moon’s own. I had not, though, and this place called forth a deep welling of caution.
No doubt Janaire would have been fascinated, were she not safe in Antai. I shivered, and D’ri’s arm slid over my shoulders. More welcome warmth, and I accepted it. An assassin here seemed…unlikely.
“Very well.” Redfist’s chin turned to his shoulder, and he regarded us sidelong with one blue, bloodshot eye. “K’ai, lass, whatever happens, do not enter the Stones.”
“Fear not.” The words sounded thin, and cold, and my teeth threatened to chatter them into bits. “I’ve no desire to.”
It only occurred to me later that he did not similarly caution Darik.
The Needleslay shook her hands, much as a Rijiin acrobat will before performing. She reached, hesitated for a bare moment, and grasped the iron ring with both bare palms and curling her naked fingers through, despite the danger of freezing to the metal.
Her back stiffened and the prickles raced over me, painful now. My knees threatened to loosen, and when the Lady of Kalburn spoke again, her voice boomed from each of the five stones, echoes multiplying from the floor as well. “Who are ye,” she said, in heavy, rolling Skaialan far too deep for even her capacious chest to summon, “to stand before the Stones?”
Thin, unhealthy pink phosphorescence spread in tendrils from the iron staple, pale against the daylight. My mouth was dry as the Danhai plains in summerscorch. Darik’s eyelids lowered a fraction, and the taran’adai between us tautened.
“I am he who calls the Clans.” Redfist did not bellow, but the words were clear. They echoed strangely against the stone as well. “I am Connaight Crae, Rainak Redfist, son of Doural Redfist, and I hae the right and the will.”
At first I thought Emrath was swelling, for she seemed to grow taller. Then the iron hoop clanked, rattling, and her skirts rustled strangely. Her body lifted, her boot-tips dropping as her toes pointed, and my breath caught. She floated, her toes barely brushing the ground. Her head tipped back, ribbon-wrapped braids slithering against each other. She said something in Skaialan, low and guttural, that I could not translate.
Redfist replied, and then, head high, he stepped onto the specklestone floor.
Whatever I expected, it was not the spreading of that diseased pinkish light, dripping down the largest stone and radiating below and between Emrath’s boot-toes. The other stones bore rosettes of that strange light struggling against the health-giving glow of the great daylamp, and a crack-creaking ran under the five-sided cup as a massive sheet of ice will shift as the temperature changes.
Redfist leaned forward, his broad shoulders dropping. His clubbed hair blew back, his beard pushed by invisible fingers, and his new furred cloak—a gift, no doubt, from the Needleslay—flapped. It was wrong; cloth and hair moved against the wind seeking to sting water from my eyes and push me into Darik.
I have seen a great many uncanny things in my wanderings. Very little has raised the fear-flesh on me, having seen wonders enough in my homeland; Power moves as it wills and performs as it pleases. I had, however, never seen a giant struggle across a stone floor while something huge and almost-visible seeks to crush him, a flea between fingernails.
Words dropped from Emrath’s slack mouth, resounding against the five pillars. Harsh, unlovely, and much deeper than her speaking-voice—I had seen this before, in the great city of Taryam-Arat, where their goddess speaks through the mouths of her followers, each a single syllable in her chorus. The Moon is jealous of her people, so a G’mai is not overly troubled by other gods, but still…what was it like, to have something fill you, speak through your mouth in such a fashion?
Once, the Moon spoke through a G’mai, and once only. That was Belariaa, who brought us the twinning and drove back the Great Dark.
I wondered if she had sounded like this.
Step by step, Redfist struggled across the wide floor as Emrath chanted. It was no great distance, but he looked…too small. My eyes ached, struggling with a view that made no sense, and Darik exhaled softly, his gaze sharpening too. The crowd stilled. Furious mutters raced through them—betting, no doubt, on how far he would reach. A certain number seemed to wish him to fail, and I longed to reach for my dotani.
Between one moment and the next, the tension snapped. Redfist almost staggered, reeling forward, and Emrath’s chant halted.
A breathlessness descended. The wind fell into silence, a vast weight pressing down like a pregnant beast about to bear. Redfist lunged, and his red-furred hands closed about the hammer-haft. The altar-chunk of rust-bleeding skymetal it was attached to ran with that same weeping, pinkish light, and the stillness, unnatural as the rest of this rite, grew so vast even the crowd of giants and their pups held collective breath caged in their lungs.
Redfist screamed, a guttural cry of effort, and the hammer quaked. It groaned as he lifted it high overhead, its chain rattling and clashing like a live thing. Then he brought it down, onto the flattened top of the skymetal chunk.
BOOM.
D’ri told me afterward how the impact sent that reddish flame rocketing skyward, how Emrath sagged, thumping back to frozen earth and clinging to the iron ring to keep herself upright. Redfist dropped the massive hammer, and cried aloud again, a victory-bellow with an edge, full of the pride of a wounded animal that can nevertheless crush its tormenters before bled to death’s cold embrace.
I did not see what happened next, for the freezing and the alien Power conspired to drive me sideways into D’ri’s shoulder, my head ringing fit to blind me. He all but dragged me back to the keep on the first wave of a crowd cheering our gingery barbarian, since, after all, Kroth had not struck him down.
Rainak Redfist had been judged worthy. And the clans, from one end of the Highlands to the other, had been summoned to assembly.
Argue With a Duel
“My apologies.” Darik held a wooden cup of near-boiling sofin to my lips, and I pushed his hand away to take it myself as I sagged upon a three-legged wooden stool. The Northern drink was not chai, but it was wonderfully warming nonetheless. “I shall be more careful of you, Kaia.”
“No need to apologize. Every land has its witchery,” I muttered. “I am simply unused to it striking me upon the head.” It was worse than the aftermath of a tavern brawl, and I missed being largely unaffected by such things. Denial of my own Power, practiced since childhood, had inured me to much of the world’s uncanny. Now, with a s’tarei, I was no longer as immune.
I could not decide if it was
a comfort, or a worry. Or both, a twin-headed wyrm.
“No adai would be comfortable with such a thing,” he agreed gravely. Beads of sleet, caught in his hair, glistened.
“Is she well?” Redfist’s face rose over his shoulder, a rosy-scruffed moon with melted drops caught in his beard and hair. “Kaia?”
“Well enough.” I took stock, barely remembering being dragged inside Kalburn keep again. At least this room was familiar, the same one the Needleslay had insulted me in yesterday, with its half-finished tapestry and its half-wooden walls. Emrath had waved aside her female attendants and their chivvying with a single weary motion outside the door.
The grey-eyed Lady of Kalburn, transparently pale, slumped in a chair by the fireplace and sipped at her own cup of spiced wine. She studied Redfist’s back, her expression somewhere between thoughtful and exhausted. Sleet-melt dropped from her skirt and overshoes, and when she caught my gaze her large bloodless mouth drew down, a slight grimace.
Was it envy, upon her face? I have seen such an expression before, but rarely upon a woman. Most of them, except for fellow sellswords, consider me an unlucky creature at best.
I decided whatever the Needleslay was contorting her face over was best left unaddressed. Instead, I turned to the truly pressing question. “What happens now?”
“I have been judged worthy by Kroth Himself.” Redfist nodded, as if I’d posed a profound riddle. His blue eyes were bloodshot, and he moved as if his right arm pained him somewhat. He stretched his hands as sellswords often do, restoring flexibility to fingers frozen by practice, injury, or cold. “Next the Clans send their envoys. If all goes well, they will refuse to obey Dunkast any further, and—”
“And apples will fall from the sky, and the rivers will not freeze but run with wine.” Emrath’s laugh was a masterpiece of sharp bitterness. A tendril of golden hair had come loose of her braids and fell in her face. The dishevelment, slight as it was, suited her. “Or is it that ye’ve taken up lying now, Rainak?”
My head ached, a tender fruit balancing upon a too-thin stem. “Well, Dunkast is on his way here. Perhaps you may simply kill him, and the problem solves itself.” And we may return to Antai as soon as the Pass melts.
The prospect had much to recommend it. Sofin, too hot to truly drink, was nevertheless bracing, and I inhaled its scent gratefully.
“Oh, aye.” Emrath lifted her heavy-carved wooden cup, a sarcastic toast. Her ear-drops glittered, lying against fair hair. “Were it that simple, my lady Elvish, it would have been done by others long since.”
Mother Moon, I hate that word. “If you have nothing helpful to add, Needleslay, perhaps you should hold your tongue.”
“Quarrelsome women.” Redfist’s teeth showed, a strained smile. He disdained a chair, and his hairy shins were stippled with road-spatter. “It gave me a turn to see ye struck, Kaia. Perhaps your Durran has the right of it.”
“I begin to think you do not wish my company or my protection, Redfist.” I took a gulp of sofin, scorching all the way down. “And I do not think this likely to be simple at all. That does not mean I cannot jest, or wish it were so. Of course, your enemy is on his way hither; he must sleep sometime, and I am hardly the worst when it comes to quiet knifework.”
That made a stunned silence fill the room. A knot of sap-heavy wood piled in the fireplace instead of blackrock popped, and I did not flinch at the sound. Darik straightened, touched my shoulder with two fingers, and paced to the window.
A prince of the Dragon Throne might not like the idea of assassination, but any who have dabbled in politics understand its efficacy.
“So this is your Black Brother, Rainak?” Enrath studied me. Her grey eyes were bloodshot too; it could not have been comfortable to bear the invisible force thundering through the Stones. Though I had considered myself the only flawed G’mai, we are still bred to Power. Not many others may say the same. “An elvish—”
My temper snapped. “Say that word again, Needleslay, and I will call you to the dueling ground.” I tested my legs, found they were more than adequate, and stood, setting the cup down on a small table next to the wobbling stool. It was perhaps a child’s seat, being my size rather than Redfist’s, and I did not like to be perched upon it. My restlessness demanded motion; I longed to be moving.
“Will ye, now.” She dropped her gaze into her own cup, though, and moved her feet slightly, kicking her skirts free of her overshoes. “A common bint challenging the Lady of Kalburn. The bards shall have a fine time with that.”
“I’ve seen her duel, Emrath.” Redfist sighed, gustily, and turned to rubbing at his right shoulder. “Ye’d be wise to keep thy mouth closed.”
“Oh, so ye have what ye wish of me, and now it’s keep thy mouth closed, Emrath.” She shook her head, her hair rasping against the high-carven seatback. The fire spoke again, popping counterpoint. “Fine manners thou did learn in the underlands, boyo.”
“I might almost think she wishes that Dunkast man here to defend her,” Darik commented from the window, softly, in G’mai. Afternoon light, failing swiftly, fell across his hair and the planes of his face, and I felt, again, the weary astonishment that so fine a princeling had left the Blessed Land, come over sea and hill, and decided to attach himself to me, of all people.
“I might, as well.” It was good to find something to agree with my s’tarei about. Then I changed to tradetongue, but did not load it with Skaialan. Let her work to understand my speech, this woman. “This Ferulaine may well arrive before the clans do. What do you plan in that event, Redfist-my-friend?”
A curious look crossed Redfist’s broad barbarian face, nose wrinkling slightly with perplexity. “Well.”
I waited, setting my course for the window as well. Halfway there, the silence grew heavy, and I swung about. My boots, dripping, left marks on the scattered rushes. “You do have a plan, do you not?”
He spread his hands. Vivid red marks upon his palms showed the print of the hammer-haft. “I’ve called the Clans. Tis enough, for now.”
Is it? I all but boggled at him, my jaw-hinge suspiciously loose. “You mean you have no plan? You have not thought upon—”
He scowled at me, returning to rubbing at his shoulder. It was a new thing; in the South, he had been, if not sunny, at least phlegmatic. “I have thoughts aplenty. There is much he must answer for, my brother.”
Here was a new wrinkle to the fabric. Bastard could have been a use-term; I knew little of the Highlands kin-structure. “Brother? I thought you said he was a—”
“Aye, but he was like a brother to me.” Redfist dropped his hands and turned his chin, looking to the stone mantel and the glow of burning wood. The chimney made a low sound as wind swept across its top, like a Rijiin side-flute. “Until he killed my father.”
“You mentioned that.” I cupped my earthenware mug, enjoying its short-lived heat. The sofin was cooling quickly. Even inside, a Highlands winter seeks to eat what living fire it may find.
“That is not the tale I heard.” Emrath stared at the fire, possibly deciding it was the safest quarter to rest her gaze upon. “Half my clan must be angry I walked a kinslayer to the Stones. The other half, well. Kroth has judged thee, how can I argue?”
I had little sympathy for the Needleslay’s clan-troubles. “Precisely how did your father die, Redfist?”
“I cannae tell.” It was hard to believe the ruddy giant could grow pale, but he did. “The morning of battle, he was stone-cold in his tent, and our clan surprised by the Ferulaine striking before dawn.”
Interesting. “Poison?” Suddenly the sofin did not seem nearly as appetizing.
The corners of our barbarian’s mouth turned down, his mouth pursing, hiding in his beard. Drying, it sprang up in a tangle. “I am no assassin, to know such things.”
“I am.” I arrived at Darik’s shoulder, gazed out into a darkening afternoon. The sky held a promise of snow instead of sleet, its infinite depths lightening slightly as the wind chilled just a fra
ction. Just enough. “You may tell much from the way a man chooses to kill.” It was an old Hain proverb. “And when you know a man, you know how to kill him.” That was a Clau saying, and I longed suddenly, fiercely, to see Kesamine at the Swallows Moon again. At least there I could eat proper food, and take a real bath.
Silence, again, filled the room to the brim.
“When he arrives…” The words were quiet, and level, without any of Redfist’s usual bluff, hearty noise. If he spoke thus more often, I might well have to revise my opinion of his temper, not to mention his dangerousness. “When he does, I shall challenge him to trial, and we shall see.”
“Rainak…” Emrath lowered her goblet with a troubled frown.
I could hardly argue with a duel, having fought my fair share. “It might be best to simply let me sink a knife into his liver,” I pointed out. “And if he has witchery upon him—”
“Kaia.” Darik shook his head. “I shall kill him, should it come to that. The foul gloves are dangerous to an adai, and the Power of this country—”
“I am the better assassin, D’ri.” You are far too fine for such things. My shoulder touched his again, and I stared across sloping, slate-tiled roofs, up at the deepening bruise of the sky.
“Neither of ye will kill him.” A hard smacking sound—a ham-sized fist, driven into the opposite palm. If Redfist winced at the impact against his bruised hands, I could not tell. “I shall be meeting him in trial, and let Kroth decide. And if by some foul witchery he strikes me down, Emrath will smuggle ye twain south as she did me.”
“I will?” Emrath laughed. It might have been a pleasant sound, but for its lack of true amusement. “Oh, aye, I will, if only to be free of them. Ye are just as ye were, Rainak Redfist.”
Steelflower in Snow Page 10