by J. V. Jones
Raif felt the cragsman’s words stir him, but he didn’t want them to. I am clan, he wanted to cry. For the first time since Tanjo Ten Arrow’s death he touched his lore. The raven ivory was smooth and warm, lighter than he remembered. The lightness frightened him. What had been lost?
Addie saw what Raif held in his fist. He said, “Clan is just one way of being. They have their warriors and guidestones— all manner of fine things—and if you grow up one of them it’s hard to believe that anything else can compare to it. But ask yourself this: Is clan better or worse for Stillborn’s loss . . . my loss . . . yours?”
Raif tried to shrug but found he couldn’t. Addie’s sharp gray gaze wouldn’t let him. Raif squeezed his lore, and then let it drop against the hollow of his throat. “You and Stillborn would be an asset to any clan,” he said, knowing it for the truth.
“And you?”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know you outshot Tanjo Ten Arrow when your life depended on it. I watched with my own eyes as you made a choice between three targets, and though you killed a fine ewe we’re both here to tell of it. I’d say that makes you a survivor.”
Did it? Raif thought of Duff’s stovehouse. Six men dead . . . but not him. And the badlands. Tem dead, a chief dead, thirteen others dead. Yet he and Drey had survived. Raif stood. Cold drafts from the Rift had stiffened his joints and he had to put a hand on the cliff wall to steady himself. Air beat against his eardrums as pressure built for another snowfall.
“You mourn your clan, I can see that,” Addie said. “But does your clan mourn you?”
Raif searched desperately for a reason not to shake his head. Drey. Only Drey.
“Set it aside. Take what you’ve learned and move forward. A clansman can never be anything other than clan. We can be more.”
How could that be possible on the edge of the world, with no kin, no guidestone, no gods? Men came here because they’d run out of choices, not because they sought something more. Addie’s words were self-deception. Yet why didn’t they sound like it? And why, after Stillborn had warned him that Maimed Men didn’t make good friends, had Stillborn acted as a friend to Linden Moodie?
Raif took a breath to calm himself. He needed answers.
“Why was the newborn lowered into the Rift?”
“It’s our way.”
“And Tanjo Ten Arrow?”
“That is also our way.”
Raif recognized the stubbornness in Addie’s voice, and was glad of it. It gave him something to fight. “Why were his eyelids taken from him?”
“So that he would see his own end.”
“And the newborn? Her eyelids were sewn shut.”
“She was innocent. She shouldn’t have to—” Addie stopped himself.
“Shouldn’t have to what?” Raif pressed. “See? What’s down there, Addie? What are the Rift Brothers afraid of?”
The cragsman looked Raif straight in the eye. “You don’t want to know.”
“Don’t I?” Raif heard the coldness enter his voice. He plucked his lore from his throat and held it out for the cragsman to see. “My clan named me Watcher of the Dead. My father and chief were slain in the badlands. I broke an oath to my brother, and abandoned my sister. And you’d be a fool to think I have anything left to lose.”
Addie stepped back a fraction. The large chunk of cartilage that formed the apple of his throat quivered as he studied Raif carefully. After a few moments he seemed to come to some decision.
“You know Wellhouse keeps the histories?”
Raif nodded.
“In the Wellhold you grow up hearing the old songs, the ones everyone else has forgotten. If your father’s a fountsman then you have access to the Kenning Hall where many old scrolls and documents are kept. It gets inside you, knowledge. Even if you’ve a brain as holey as an old fleece some portion of it sticks. You canna help it. You learn things despite yourself. Our old clan guide was Rury Wellhouse, uncle to the chief, and the most learned man in the clanholds. Rury was a canny man. He knew how to wake a boy’s mind. He’d tell us stories of the great chiefs, of battles and treaties, and fierce duels where neither opponent was left standing. He slipped the histories into our heads and we never even knew it. At night, after the hunt, he’d lead the singing. Such a fair voice, he had, mellow and filled with knowing.”
Addie halted, remembering. Snow had begun to fall whilst he spoke; big white flakes that seesawed down like feathers. Raif wondered what had become of the cranes.
“It’s funny how songs stay in your head,” Addie said. “You can forget the name of your first herd dog, and the color of your mother’s eyes, but some piece of nonsense from forty years ago stays with you like it’s been scribed into your skin.”
Raif heard himself ask, “What have you remembered?”
Addie hesitated. He was standing close to the fire, and the rising heat formed a shield around him, warding off snow. “Something. A fragment of an old song.”
“About me?”
“Perhaps.” Addie shrugged, discomforted. “It was what you said, put me in mind of it.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m not much of a singer. I—”
“Say the words.”
“Aye.” The cragsman pushed at the air testily. “I see you’ll not rest till you’ve had your fill.” Letting out a breath he calmed himself, and then began to speak in his rough, smoky voice.
“Though walls may crumble and earth may break
He will forsake
Though night may fall and shadows rise
He will be wise
Though seals may shatter and evil grow
He will draw his bow
Though a fortress may fall and darkness ride through the gate
He will lie in wait
And when the Demon emerges and all hopes depart
He must take its heart.”
The snowfall thickened in the silence following the cragsman’s verse. Raif was aware of icy flakes catching in his hair and in the collar of his Orrl cloak, but he was numb to their coldness. He felt made of stone. They’re just words, he told himself, but he knew it wasn’t the truth, and the echo came back to him. My words.
He understood what they meant. Almost. They lay on the edge of his perception, like a high-pitched birdcall that began within normal range, then passed beyond hearing. And they sent charges along his nerves, firing off scraps of memory and making images flicker behind his eyes: Drey pressing the swear-stone into his fist; Sadaluk holding out an arrow; the Forsworn knight murmuring, We search.
Raif blinked and the images fled. He was aware of the cragsman, watching him and waiting, an expression that was half fear and half resignation lying heavy on his face.
Abruptly Raif moved, shrugging off snow. “Tell me about the Rift, Addie.”
The cragsman nodded, acknowledging the inevitability of the question. Glancing around, he assured himself that they wouldn’t be overheard before speaking. “The earth’s thin here. The Want, the badlands, the Rift: they lie on rotting crust. There’s canyons, frost boils, gas geysers, hot springs. All flaws. And the Rift is the greatest flaw of them all. It’s deep, deep, and there are those who say it’s too deep, that it bores down to the place where worlds meet. The gray place, where life and death are separated by a lamb’s breath. Wellhouse knows some of it, but most of the old knowledge has been forgotten or sealed away. And it’s the same with the Rift Brothers: they know just enough to be afraid.”
Addie paused, his worn hands reaching out to steady himself against the cliff face. “We don’t speak of it. We’re like clan that way, always burying the old troubles deep. I’m hardly the man to ask. I herded sheep for my living, now I thieve them. What do I know of the dark days ahead?”
He looked at Raif, and Raif met his gaze without flinching.
Addie blew air from his mouth, beaten. “You asked why the brothers send their dead to the Rift. That I can tell you. They’re trying to seal it. They believe that
if they throw enough bodies down there, and enough blood is shed, they can stop the Rift from tearing open. What’s down there I canna say. Innocents like the newborn are allowed the privilege of never finding out. Their eyes are taken so they never have to see what awaits them. Now Tanjo, he dishonored Traggis Mole. He was supposed to win the duel of arrows and make a liar of you. ’Course, it didn’t play out that way, and the crowd was all riled up for a killing. Traggis had no choice but to send him to the Rift. It’s a hard land we live in and the Maimed Men respect a hard man. Traggis dealt Tanjo Ten Arrow the worst death in the Rift. Sent him down there alive, without eyelids to shut out the horrors that bide there.” Addie’s hand went to his waist, questing for a portion of powdered guidestone that was no longer there.
Raif pretended not to notice. Some things were between a man and his gods.
He asked, “What do the brothers believe will come through the rent if the Rift tears?”
Addie snorted softly. “Imagine your worst nightmare, then reckon it tenfold. That’d be a start.”
Raif nodded. The cragsman was speaking a language he understood. “The Rift isn’t a fortress, though,” he said.
“Aye,” Addie replied, knowing immediately what Raif meant. “The song was most particular about that.”
“You said there are other flaws?”
“The Want is riddled with them. Just because the Rift’s the greatest doesn’t mean it will be the first to give.”
“Just the worst.”
Addie chuckled grimly, not disagreeing.
Ash. It all began with Ash. Raif tilted his head back and let the snow fall on his face. They had failed, both of them, and now the darkness was forcing its way out. Addie’s verse hinted that it could be slowed or delayed, but that would mean finding the fault most likely to give. We search, the Forsworn knight had said. Could it be for the same thing?
Raising his hand, Raif scrubbed his face clean of snow. The skin around his eyes was beginning to numb. He was clan. He didn’t have the book-learning of the knights or the tracking skills of the Sull. What made Addie think he was the one do it?
We can be more. Raif shook the cragsman’s words away from him. He didn’t want them to be true.
Hearing footfalls on the steps below, Raif calmed himself. Later. He would think about it later, after dark.
Addie moved back to the fire, and began fussing with his joint of meat. Motioning for Raif to join him, he spoke in a voice meant to be overheard. “Will you be taking a little tea before you go?”
As Raif shook his head, a call came up from below.
“Addie! Is Twelve Kill up there with you?” Stillborn.
“Aye,” Addie cried back, relaxing imperceptibly. “Come and join us. We’re sharing a spot of supper.”
Stillborn’s big, ruined face came into view at the far end of the ledge. He was sweating and out of breath. “Haven’t got time, Addie. The Robber Chief’s got me running errands like a girl.” He turned to Raif. “I don’t know what you’ve done this time, lad, but I’m betting it’s nothing good. You’re to come to the Chief’s Cave at midnight. Traggis Mole wants to see you alone.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Dealing in the Milkhouse
The Milkhouse was a strange place, Bram concluded as he walked through its lower corridors bearing a heavy, covered platter. Parts of the building were hardly like a roundhouse at all. Where most other roundhouses had large vaulted halls, accessed by wide walkways and stairs, the Milkhouse was built like a maze. Leagues of white-walled corridors spooled off in countless directions, each one looking the same as the last. You had to look carefully to figure it out.
Milkstone was impervious to mold, soot, damp or decay, so although parts of the Milkhouse had been standing for three thousand years, it had an ageless look about it. No rooms or vaults existed belowground. Bram had wondered about that until Guy Morloch had explained Castlemilk’s strategy for defense. The Milkhouse lay in a shallow depression, two hundred yards north of the river. A system of ancient pumps and cisterns, built by the great Milk chief Huxlo Castlemilk, allowed the ground floor of the roundhouse to be flooded in times of war. The milkstone held water, Guy confided, and all of the principal rooms of the roundhouse were located in the upper two storeys. The clan would move upwards for safety, an invading force would be thwarted, and the water pumped out when the threat had passed.
Bram thought it was a clever idea, but he wondered about Guy Morloch’s willingness to tell it. Guy was a Castlemilk swordsman, newly come to Robbie’s cause. How had Robbie managed to command his loyalty so completely?
It was a question Bram wasn’t sure he wanted answered. Besides, there wasn’t time for it now. He’d already fallen behind the others, and he didn’t want to risk losing sight of them. Robbie was on edge at the prospect of this meeting, and his temper would likely flare if everything didn’t go to plan.
Only a handful of men had been chosen to accompany Robbie Dun Dhoone on his visit to the Milk chief: Iago Sake, Duglas Oger, Guy Morloch, and the swordsman newly deserted from Skinner Dhoone’s camp, Jordie Sarson. Bram and Jess Blain brought up the rear as pages.
It was sunset and the failing light somehow found its way into the roundhouse, casting long, complicated shadows, and rippling like fluid within the milkstone. Guy Morloch led the way. He and Robbie were the only ones not bearing goods. Bram didn’t know what lay within the various sacks and baskets the others carried, but he could guess their purpose. Bribery. Robbie Dhoone wanted something from the Milk chief.
As they wound their way higher through the roundhouse, Bram noticed that the milkstone began to be supplemented with sandstone. The two didn’t lie easily together, and pale, uniform walls gave way to a checkered mismatch of light and dark stone. Bronze torches had been hammered into the softer sandstone, and a Castlemilk luntman was busy filling their fuel reservoirs with pure-burning rape oil.
At this time of day clansmen were at their hearths, supping ale and taking their supper, and Robbie’s group passed few people on their way to the Brume Hall. Guy Morloch set a brisk pace. Like all of Robbie’s chosen companions he wore a a floor-length cloak of heavy Dhoone-blue wool fitted with thistle clasps. Robbie wore one too, only his cloak was edged in gold-and-black fisher fur, like the mantles of the Dhoone Kings.
After climbing a steep cantilevered flight of steps they arrived at a pair of doors guarded by two Castlemilk spearmen. The spearmen crossed their weapons barring the way. “Who comes here, and on what business?” demanded the elder of the two.
Guy Morloch stepped forward to speak, but Robbie put a hand on his shoulder, halting him. “Robbie Dun Dhoone comes here,” Robbie said. “On the business of kings and chiefs.”
The exchange was a formality—the meeting had already been set between Robbie and the Milk chief, and the Castlemilk guards had to know that—but Robbie’s words made it more. Only eight weeks earlier he had camped on the ground floor of this very roundhouse, a guest and supplicant of the Milk chief. Now he stood by the great Oyster Doors to the Brume Hall, demanding to see the chief on an equal footing.
Bram watched as the two guards drew to attention, unconsciously responding to the authority in Robbie’s voice. The elder spearman rapped against the door with the butt of his spear. “Open up! Robbie Dun Dhoone to see the chief.” The double doors swung back on his command and the party moved forward into the Brume Hall.
Like the Tomb of the Dhoone Princes, the Brume Hall at Castlemilk was held to be one of the wonders of the clanholds. Situated at the very top of the roundhouse, it occupied the dome at the apex. The chamber was built entirely from the finest grade of milkstone, known as “brume”. Brume, Bram recalled being told, was the old clan word for “mist”. And that was what it looked like to him as he entered behind Jess Blain: as if he were walking into a chamber walled and roofed with mist. Almost you could see outside, observe the darkening sky and pale globe of the rising moon. As he looked up, he saw a shadow pass over the roof. A night haw
k, flying south to its hunting grounds along the Milk. Bram was filled awe. The stone blocks forming the great dome of the roof had to be at least three feet thick, yet it was like looking through a sheet of cloudy glass.
“The Builder Chief, Hanratty Castlemilk, spent a lifetime fitting the dome. It took him ten years alone to develop the mortar.”
Wrayan Castlemilk, the Milk chief, raised herself from the Oyster Chair and moved forward to greet her guests. A rank of swordsmen flanked her. She was dressed plainly but finely in a robe of pale blue wool, letting the silver-and-russet braid she was known for fall straight down the front like a chain. Now that Spynie Orrl was dead, she was the second-longest-reigning chief in the clanholds. Only the Dog Lord himself had held his chiefdom longer.
“Robbie,” she said, inclining her head. “Welcome. I see you’ve brought Guy back to see me.”
Robbie grinned almost sheepishly. “He was homesick.”
Wrayan Castlemilk threw back her head and laughed. It was a good sound, vigorous and throaty, and it broke the tension in the Brume Hall. “Duglas. Iago. Bram.”
Bram wondered how she knew his name. He bowed formally at the neck, as his father had taught him, and for some reason this pleased her and lengthened the duration of her smile.
“I saw you admiring the dome,” she said to him. “Hanratty may have fitted it, but truth be told it wasn’t really his own work.”
“The Sull?”
She nodded. “You’ve a smart brother here, Robbie. I see why you keep him close.”
Bram felt hot blood flush his face. Quickly he glanced at his brother, and saw that Robbie was unsure how to react. By the time he’d settled on a bland smile, Wrayan Castlemilk had already registered his discomfort and moved on.
“The dome was found in pieces in the heart of the Ruinwoods,” she said to Bram. “It had fallen from a structure we think may have been a temple. Of course, there’s nothing left of it now. The forest’s broken it down and swallowed it up.” For a moment Wrayan Castlemilk’s deep brown-eyed gaze held Bram’s, appraising him, before turning her attention to other things.