Breathing deeply, Raina tried to replace her waning strength with air. A woman whom she had trusted and called friend had been cleverly turned against her. Almost it was too much.
She tried one last time. "You are right, Merritt, I'm not happy that Stannig came here. He's Scarpe's guide—let them have him. We're paying tribute to a foreign stone whilst Scarpemen are grinding down the Hailstone and carting it away."
Merritt must have heard something close to breaking in Raina's voice, for she was gentle in her reply. "Who better to do that job? Name me one Hailsman who would relish breaking down the ruined stone? Stannig hopes to spare, not deceive us."
How had he got to her? Raina wondered. What tales had he spun? What promises had he whispered in her ear? Whatever he had done it was subtle, for Merritt was too clever to fall for obvious ploys. Did he know how close Merritt was to Raina herself? Was he trying to isolate the chiefs wife? Raina tucked that thought away for later consideration. To Merritt she said the only thing she had left. "Stannig Beade is a Scarpe. I thought you were my ally against them."
Tutting softly, Merritt shook her head. "Think clearly, Raina. My position on Scarpes in the Hailhouse is unchanged. Tomorrow, through that very door, two hundred Scarpes will come and kick me out of my hearth. They've done some sort of swap-around with the tied Hailsmen who were due to take it. It's a disgrace, and you underestimate me if you think that Stannig Beade can convince me otherwise. He hasn't tried to. I doubt if he'd dare. What he did do was come to me and ask my opinion on some things. And for a wonder he actually listened to the answers. That, I respect. It's fitting that a new clan guide acquaints himself with matters of clan, and also fitting that he takes the time to introduce himself to its widows. He knows there are things wrong in this clan. But right now he doesn't have time for that. His priority is the new guidestone—and rightly so. We must be settled as a clan before we can move forward, have a heart beating before we can breathe. You know that and if you would look beyond his colors, you would see that Stannig Bead is guide first and foremost. Not a Scarpe."
Raina felt a little stunned, as if someone had knocked her with some force on the head. How on earth was she to deal with this? At least now she knew how Stannig Beade had got to Merritt: he had flattered her and opened up a channel to power. It was telling that Stannig Beade had made no such overture to the chiefs wife, no cozy little talk, no confessions of uncertainty, no delicate request for information. He wouldn't dare. Five days ago on the greatcourt they had met eye-to-eye, and she had seen through him and he through her. Stannig Beade knew the chiefs wife for his enemy, and Raina Blackhail knew that before her stood a man who coveted Blackhail's power.
It was then, looking into Merritt Ganlow's superior face, that Raina had decided to steal the Hailstone. She'd be damned if she'd stand by and let some clever, scar-faced Scarpemen have his way with the remains. And Merritt could go to hell too.
Now, one day later, Raina had lost the bravado she'd felt outside the widows' hearth. Strange, but when she had actually stolen the stone from the nibble that was heaped against the roundhouse's east wall, things had begun to change for her. She had chosen her moment carefully, for the night crews were still working on the wall and her only opportunity to be alone was when one of Anwyn's kitchen girls had called the crews inside for ale and supper. Oil lamps and guarded candles had been left burning on poles and on makeshift pedestals of piled stones. A big vat of tar was bubbling on a slow green flame and buckets of white lime had been arranged in a loose half-circle around it. Timber boards and split logs were strewn across the ground, and Raina could smell the itchy, dry-skin odor of sawdust A second scaffold was now in place, bridging the gap between bare ground that had once held the guidehouse and the shattered remains of the stable block. Raina had to be careful to duck her head as she crossed toward the scrap pile of granite.
Stannig Beade's mule-powered stone mill cast its big blocky shadow against the remains of the Hailstone. The new clan guide was wasting no time and Raina could see that the largest chunks of stone had already gone under the mill. What remained were pieces no bigger than a man's head, and even these had been sorted and were lying in a separate pile close to the millstone. Stannig would be grinding at dawn. A charge of anger ran down Raina's spine. How could Merntt Ganlow not see what this man was about? Snapping her head once, as if to shake off some unpleasant insect that had alighted upon it, Raina approached the remains. She had thought, wrongly, that it might be difficult to tell Hailstone from roundhouse stone; the explosion had blasted and commingled both types of rock. Yet there was no mistaking guidestone. If she was ever asked what the differences were, she would not be able to provide an answer that would satisfy anyone other than a clansman. It was guidestone. It was different..
She picked the largest piece, how could she not? And struggled to lift sixty pounds of dead weight to her chest. She had not thought to bring a saddlebag or pack, and had only her shawl to conceal the stone. Now that she no longer had fine chambers lo call her own she slept in one of the dry cells beneath the kitchen that Anwyn used few storing herbs. She took the stone there, walking around the exterior of the roundhouse and not through it. When she rapped on the kitchen door Anwyn answered. The clan matron did not know what Raina carried and did not ask.
Later Anwyn brought her supper, hot onion soup and a wedge of fried bread, and nodded briskly at Kama's request for while spirits and a shoulder pack sturdy enough to carry a small child.
Something had already begun to change for Raina that night, but when she poured white spirits onto a soft rag and began to polish the largest remaining piece of Hailstone, she finally realized what it meant. This was no longer about spiting Stannig Beade and thwarting his plans. This was about Blackhail. This was about preserving its heart. Someone someday would need this and when they did, Raina Blackhail could tell them where to find it.
Crouching amid the flickering shadows of Yarro Blackhail's hidden strongroom, Raina Blackhail slipped the Hailstone from its bag. It was an edge piece from the exterior of the stone and the old chisel lines were still upon it. Raina thought of Inigar Stoop; his body had never been found. Would he be glad she was doing this?
I do not know.
Glancing around the small rectangular-shaped room, Raina wondered where to stow the stone. Over in one comer, perched atop a wooden market crate, were the items she had taken after Dagro's death. Small things, tokens for herself; gifts of modest jewels he had given her, his personal handknife, his belt buckle, a letter Norala, Dagro's first wife, had written to them both before her death, Raina had not been able to bear the thought that Mace Blackhail might claim them as his own, so she had removed them from her chambers and his gaze. Once he had asked her quite pointedly about Dagro's handknife, for it was well made and handsome with a translucent ivory handle and double-edged blade. She had told him that Dagro must have taken it with him to the Badlands for she hadn't seen it in over a month. She had been new to deception then and it had been a very bad lie. He never challenged her on it: any mention of the Badlands left him cold.
Mace had been gone five days now, riding for Ganmiddich with a thousand men. Tomorrow a second thousand would leave with Grim Shank at their head.
Realizing she needed to attend the departing warriors, Raina made a quick decision about the stone. She would leave it in the far corner, uncovered, and in full sight. To slide it back in the pack and conceal it would only draw attention to it if it were found. This way it would just be a wayward chunk of stone. She doubted very much that any Scarpeman besides Stannig Beade would be capable of recognizing it as Hailstone. But a Hailsman or Hailswoman would know it, and that was perhaps enough.
The wedge-shaped piece of Hailstone fitted perfectly in the corner and to Raina it seemed as if it were drawing shadows around itself, for when she stepped back she could no longer see it clearly. It had become part of the foundation, a slightly irregular chunk in the wall. She had thought she might speak a prayer but now that it came to it she h
ad none to offer. The Stone Gods either knew what she did, or didn't They either judged it right or wrong. No poorly worded prayer would change that.
Scooping up the shoulder pack and the safelamp, Raina crossed to the entry portal. The stone tile was easier to set in motion from inside for a small depression cut into the face provided traction for the fingers. Within seconds Raina was back in the foundation space, once again knee-deep in water. Freed from the weight of the stone she felt oddly light and miscalculated the force needed to walk. The water sloshed a lot and twice she nearly tipped over. Drunk she decided. Alcohol optional. Now she came to think of it though, a good strong dram of Anwyn's twenty-year malt would be just the thing. Her nerves deserved it.
Reaching the narrow gap between stone pillars that led up toward the living spaces, Raina let down her skirts. It wouldn't do for a chiefs wife to be seen baring her thighs. It wouldn't do for her to be seen down here at all, but once she reached the upper cellars where the dry cells were located she was in the clear. "Just checking on the butter stores for Anwyn" would do it, either that or "Longhead's still worried about flooding, and I thought I'd take a look at it for myself."
When she reached the stairs she sat, pulled off her boots and drained the water. Her toes were white and wrinkled. The boots were drenched and would need to be carefully stretched as they dried. Once they were back on her feet she ran up the stairs and along the landing, the safelamp swinging giddily in her hand. One more flight of stairs to go and she'd be aboveground in the land of the living.
"Woman."
She spun in the direction of the voice. Along the corridor all was shadow. The person who spoke did not carry a light.
Stannig Beade stepped into the halo created by Raina's lamp. As always she was surprised that he was a clan guide, for he had the shoulder breadth and muscle of a hatchetman. He was wearing his ceremonial cloak, the black boarskin burned ragged at the hem. His tattooed and needle-pocked cheeks trapped the lamplight and gave you nowhere to look save his eyes.
"Stannig." Raina was pleased with how strong her voice sounded. Resisting the urge to draw the shoulder pack behind her skirts she said, "If you will excuse me I have work to do in the stables. Good day." She turned her back on him and nearly got away, but he stopped her with a question.
"Did you fall?" He waited until she had turned back to face him before dropping his gaze to her sopping skirts.
She shrugged. "Work."
He let the silence spin out, breathing possessively, claiming the air between them. "I see." His hands twitched. Raina could see the stone dust wedged beneath his fingernails. "I have been looking for you. Someone said they had seen you slip belowground at noon." He paused, letting her know that it was now a long time after noon. "I had not thought to find you here."
"Yet still you looked." It was a mistake to challenge him and she wished she could take it back.
Again his hands twitched. "I believe you are unhappy with the removal of the Hailstone."
Merritt Ganlow. Raina could hardly fathom it She and Merritt had been friends for twenty years; their husbands had shared a tent the day they died. How could Merritt do this? How could she talk to this man about their private conversations?
Stannig Beade watched Raina compose herself, his expression fixed, his dark eyes gleaming with animal triumph.
Raina took a deep breath. Think, she told herself. Think. "I have some concerns, I will not hide that. To grind the stone to nothing and dump it in the lake seems… unceremonious."
Stannig Bead brought a hand to his face and tapped his chin. "Unceremonious," he repeated, giving the word a sharp little twist. "A chiefs wife concerned with matters of the gods… how… unusual."
Raina felt her face grow hot.
It appeared to be the outcome he was hoping for, as he nodded once, to himself. "Seems I have chosen the right person after all."
She would not give him the satisfaction of asking what he meant. Stomach sinking, skirts dripping water onto the floor, she waited.
Stannig Beade was unperturbed. Moving his powerful shoulders in a relaxed shrug, he said, "The ceremony to hallow the new Hailstone requires a person of high honor to light the Menhir Fire. Commonly it is custom for the clan chief to hold the torch, but as you are aware your husband is at war. I have given long thought to the matter of who should stand in for him, and spoken with many people in the clan. Time and time again a name came up. She is the one held in deepest respect. She is the one whose presence is most valued. She is the who will bring the highest honor to the ceremony." The clan guide of Scarpe and now Blackhail looked Raina straight in the eye. "I know you would not want to disappoint your clansmen and clanswomen, Raina Blackhail, so I will assume on Menhir Night you will stand at my side and aid me in presenting the new Hailstone to the gods."
He did not wait for her answer, just bowed a sharp dismissal and left her standing in the corridor alone.
She watched dust roused by his footsteps settle and knew she had been outmaneuvered by an expert. Stannig Beade would use her standing in this clan to strengthen his position and validate the new guidestone. She could hear her clansmen now:
"Well, I was against it, I admit But there's Raina at Beade's side and we all know she's not a woman to give her support lightly.."
"Aye. If the new stones good enough for Raina Blackhail it'll do for me."
Aware she was swaying slightly, Raina sent out a hand to brace herself against the wall. She could not refuse Stannig Beade, for she had heard the warning in his voice: Refuse and all will know it. You will fracture the clan and reveal your ambition … and what good will that do you on Mace's return?
If Mace ever did return. If he died in battle it would suit Beade well enough. The Scarpe guide was already beginning to act like a chief.
Raina gave a little cry of fright as the flame in her safelamp went out.
SEVENTEEN The Clan That Walks Swords
It was two hours past sunset and the Milkhouse's primary door was closed and unlit. Bram Cormac hesitated to approach it and demand entry. The ferryman who had transported Bram and his horse across the Milk River was poling his barge away from the shore. "Do'na dawdle, boy. The longer you leave it the harder you'll have to knock." Laughing as if he'd said something amusing, the ferryman floated away.
Bram looked at his feet. They were wet; the barge had taken in water once the weight of Guy Morloch's stallion had settled upon it. Still, it was better than having to swim across. Last time Bram was here there had been no ferryman to provide crossing.
Gaberil, Guy's horse, nosed Bram's side, playful now that the trauma of the crossing was behind him. "Easy, Gabbie," Bram murmured, absently running his hand over the horse's mane as he stared at the massive glowing dome of the Milkhouse. "I just need a moment to decide what to do."
It wasn't the truth. He knew what he must do—there was no decision involved—but it didn't mean that he couldn't stand here for a bit and just wait.
He had been lucky in a way, for the journey here had been his own. Once Guy Morloch and Jordie Sarson had left for the Stonefly, running off to alert Dhoonesmen to the Dog Lord's presence, Bram had no one to answer to but himself. Such a thing had never happened to him before and it had been scary, but also good. He'd remembered falling asleep that first night, crazily bedding down on an exposed hillside without fire or tent, thinking Gods, what am I going to do? Now he knew the answer. Go slow.
Without anyone to shepherd him to the Milkhouse, Bram Cormac could take his time. It did not change his obligation to this clan, just delayed it by a few days. It was freedom and the Dog Lord of Clan Bludd had bought it for him, and Bram thought he'd better enjoy it while it lasted.
The best possible thing had happened that next morning. Bram had been woken by a bored horse. The night before Gabbie had fled in terror and panic as Vaylo Bludd's dogs closed in on him. He'd thrown his rider, Guy Morloch, and trampled one of the dogs. Bram thought he'd seen the last of him—a spooked horse far from home
might simply take off and never come back— but Gabbie was smart, and although he'd spent only a short time on the hillside southeast of Dhoone, he'd found his way back overnight. Wasn't a bit sorry, either.
The two of them had shared a good breakfast of cheesebread and raw leeks, and once Bram had sorted out Gabbie's saddle—it had ended up beneath him, hanging from his belly—they'd taken a ride south. It had been a perfect day, Bram remembered, with a fresh breeze and just the right amount of cloud. It wasn't long before they'd run into the Fleece, a deep and narrow tributary of the Flow. They'd followed the Fleece west for a while toward Wellhouse, but when Bram spotted a settlement of tied clansman's cottages on the shore ahead, he turned Gabbie around and began looking for a crossing.
The land south of Dhoone was dotted with limestone farmhouses. Barely, wheat, oats and rye were grown here, and squares of burned stubble poking through thawing snow became a familiar sight to Bram. He'd spent two nights camping on the north shore of the Fleece, enjoying the unfamiliar sensation of being master of his own time. Mabb Cormac had taught both his sons how to fish, and Bram had whittled a pole and unraveled the border of one of his woolen blankets for twine. He didn't catch anything, but he learned why men loved to fish. You could do nothing and something at exactly the same time.
The weather changed and it rained a bit, then snowed. Gabbie shivered until he was given a blanket, and then began to chew on it. Bram thought about taking it away, but didn't. He decided it was quite possible for a horse to digest wool.
Eventually they crossed the river. An ancient hog-backed bridge spanned the Fleece just west of Clan Camber. The tiny clanhold defended the crossing with a stone and timber redoubt and a system of pulleys and river chains, but for some reason they weren't manned. Later that day Bram ran into a tied Camberman driving a pair of white oxen with a stick. The man had taken one look at Bram's Dhoone-blue cloak and driven his cattle from the road.
A Sword from Red Ice Page 29