A Cavern Of Black Ice (Book 1)

by J. V. Jones

  The party of twenty-six rode in single and double file down the slope toward the roundhouse. As the wind had turned and quickened, they were forced to ride through the roundhouse’s smoke. Raif didn’t mind. The smoke was warm and smelled of good, honest things like resinous wood, charred mutton, and shale oil. The darkness it created hid his face.

  Below lay the roundhouse. Home. Raif remembered how it had felt to see it in the past. His mood blackened.

  From above, the roundhouse looked like a massive island of gray white stone set in a frozen sea. Sunk a hundred feet deep into the ground to protect from the fierce winds, blinding snows, and crippling frosts of winter, the stronghold was invisible from outside but for the upper quarter of its curtain wall and its heavily barricaded stone roof. Windows cut tall to let in light, yet kept narrow enough so that no man could ever force his way through them, were set into the stonework like slits. Over the years mud and dirt had built up around the base, mounding against the outer wall, burying even more of the roundhouse beneath the earth. Every autumn Longhead and his crew spent two weeks digging away the excess dirt. It took them a whole day just to root out rogue saplings that had seeded on the roof.

  Some clans let the dirt build so high around their roundhouses that eventually even the roof grew over, and plants and grasses hooked their roots into the stone. Clan Bannen’s roundhouse didn’t even look like a building from the outside, just a perfectly formed hill.

  That wasn’t Blackhail’s way. We protect ourselves against the cold and our enemies, but would sooner face death than hide. Raif had heard those words and others like them said a thousand times. Every clansman repeated them, and what had started out as an idle boast from one clan chief to another had become a way of life. Now even clan dead were left out in the open. Laid in hollowed-out basswoods in clear sight of wagon trails, passes, and streams, Blackhail corpses scorned hiding until the very last.

  Raif shook his head violently. He had seen the bodies. Sulfur and other washes kept the feeders away for only so long. After a good rainfall or a hard frost the ravens always came.

  “Raif.”

  Raina Blackhail’s voice snapped Raif back. He watched as she turned her smart chestnut filly on a hairpin and rode along the ranks toward him. The fur of her hood and cloak gleamed like sealskin. In the few minutes they had been riding, the temperature had dropped and the sleet was turning grainy like snow. Raina’s breath purled white as she rode.

  Raif watched as others made way to let her pass. Even though her husband was now dead, Raina retained her standing in the clan. Dagro Blackhail’s wealth and respect were her due. A new clan chief would have to be chosen, and although Raif knew Mace Blackhail would try to take his foster father’s place, he also knew that if Raina decided to marry again, the man she chose as her husband had a good chance of becoming chief. Raina’s decisions were always well heeded. Whenever Dagro Blackhail was away from the roundhouse and problems arose that needed handling, the clan would look to his wife. “Raina knows her husband’s mind,” they would say, meaning they trusted her judgment completely. Breech births, bad omens, blood rites, wife beatings, drunken brawls, border and damming disputes, cattle raids, and matters of clan pride: Raina Blackhail had seen to them all.

  And Effie . . .

  Raif took a deep breath and held it in. Raina Blackhail had been as good as a mother to Effie.

  “Days are failing,” Raina said, glancing at the sky as she fell in by Raif’s side. “Soon there’ll be scarce enough light to aim an arrow by.” She smiled briefly. “But then again Tem was telling me just before he left how you could find a target in the dark.”

  That made him turn and pay her heed.

  Raina Blackhail didn’t permit herself a second smile. “It wasn’t your fault, you know. Yours or Drey’s. Just about every man in this clan has slipped bounds at some time or other to run off and shoot game at the lick.”

  Raif wound his reins around his fist. “Is that what you came here to say?” As he spoke he spied Mace Blackhail at the head of the party, pointing to the far pasture and saying something to Will Hawk and Ballic the Red that caused both clansmen to nod in agreement. Raif drew the reins tighter, stopping the blood from flowing to his fingers.

  The small display of Mace Blackhail’s authority did not go unnoticed by Raina. She made a minute movement with her shoulders, squaring them and causing her sable cloak to resettle on the dock of her filly. “I came here to talk about Effie. You must be gentle with her, Raif. She’s such a quiet child. It’s hard to tell what she’s thinking.”

  “What has she been told?”

  Raina hesitated. “Mace spoke to her before I had chance to. He told her that you and Drey had died along with her da.”

  Raif exhaled with a soft hiss. “How did she take it?”

  “Not well. She seemed . . .” Raina shook her head, searched for the right word. “Angry. She ran away, and for the longest time no one could find her. We tore the roundhouse apart looking. Corbie Meese and Longhead arranged a search party. Letty and the girls lit torches and walked the length of the graze. Orwin Shank’s two eldest rode as far as the Wedge. It was Shor Gormalin who found her in the end—tucked in the corner of the little dog cote, stiff with cold and covered in dirt. Had that blessed stone of hers in her hand. Rocking back and forth with it, she was. Made herself so sick she could barely stand.” Raina clicked her tongue. “How she managed not to get eaten by those wolfhounds the Shanks keep, I’ll never know. Orwin feeds them but twice a week, I swear.”

  Relaxing his grip on his reins, Raif guided Shor Gormalin’s gelding around a bank of loose shale. His own anger suddenly didn’t seem important anymore. “How’s she been since?”

  “Well, that’s what I came to warn you about. She’s lost a bit of weight. And she keeps so much to herself . . .” Raina’s words trailed away as a small figure stepped out from the roundhouse below.

  As Raif and Raina trotted their horses down into the valley, and Mace Blackhail and his lead riders drew close to the roundhouse, the figure took hesitant, child-size steps forward. It was Effie. Her dark auburn hair gave her away. Raif leaned forward in his saddle. She was so thin.

  “Just you be careful with her, Raif Sevrance,” Raina Blackhail said, kicking her horse forward. “You and Drey are all she has.”

  Raif barely acknowledged what Raina said. He glanced two riders ahead, where Drey was riding at Orwin Shank’s side. Drey looked back. His fox hood was up again, and the sky was nearly black, but the expression on his face was clear. What has happened to Effie?

  Feeling a stab of unease in his chest, Raif kicked Shor Gormalin’s gelding into a canter and raced along the file. Drey came seconds behind.

  The beaten clay court outside the roundhouse greatdoor was filling rapidly with people. Some carried pitch-soaked torches, others smoking racks of charred mutton and spits of rabbits roasted in their skins. A few brought feed and blankets for the horses. One figure, Anwyn Bird by the looks of her round belly, rolled a keg of hearth-warmed beer before her that belched steam into the freezing air.

  Effie stood ahead of everyone, her shoulders hunched together, shivering and clutching her blue woolen dress. No one had thought to throw a cloak over her shoulders or push mitts on her hands. As Raif approached, he saw where his sister’s cheeks had sunk away, leaving little pits beneath her eyes and around her jaw. His heart ached to see them.

  He slid from his horse and ran to her. Effie took a small step forward. Her grave little face was turned up toward his, and after a moment she held out her arms and waited to be taken. Raif scooped her up and brought her to his chest. Pushing her body against his, he drew her within the folds of his oilskin to protect her from the cold. She was so light. It was like picking up a blanket stuffed with straw. Raif hugged her harder, wanting to give her his heat and his strength.

  Then Drey was there, and Effie shifted in Raif’s arms and Raif released her to his brother. Drey’s big arms enveloped Effie completely, an
d his head came down to hers, and he kissed her hair and her temples and the bridge of her nose. “It’s all right, little one. We’re back now. Raif and I are back.”

  Effie snuggled against Drey’s chest. “I knew,” she said quietly, seriously, glancing from Drey to Raif, then over to Mace Blackhail, who was busy hefting the saddle from the roan. “He said you were dead, but I knew it wasn’t so.”

  SIX

  The Inverted Spire

  Ash March twisted the sheets around herself as she turned in her sleep. Linen spun so smoothly by the old women of Maker’s Isle that it felt as cool as glass rode up between her thighs, wound around her belly, and coiled about her wrists.

  Ash dreamed she was enclosed within a womb of ice. Blue white light shone on her arms and legs, making them gleam like smooth metal. The icewall was slick where she had touched it, skin warmed and dripping. Ice squeaked and cracked as she moved. Frost fumes filled her mouth like milk.

  If she could just push further, deeper.

  Something shifted. The massive lode of ice above her juddered, and freezing splinters rained on her face and chest. Spiky and hard as needles, they punctured the skin on her arms and her breasts, drawing tiny drops of blood. Even as Ash brushed away the splinters, the ice ceiling dropped. A blizzard of cold air pumped against her face, and then the ice ceiling slammed into her chest. Ice shattered against her skin with a crack of white light, and a spume of sleet and smoke filled the air.

  Ash screamed.

  Suddenly there was nothing below her, and she fell and fell and fell.

  Voices whispered to her, coaxed and pleaded like starving men. Reach, mistressss. So cold here, so dark. Reach.

  Ash shook her head. She tried to move, but her body was numb. Frozen.

  No longer falling, she stood in the center of a cavern of black ice. All was dark except for the glimmer of smoothly frozen things. Even the breath that steamed from the walls was dark and dense, like smoke from a poorly aired fire. Fear gnawed at the edges of Ash’s thoughts. When she breathed she took in the smell of cold things. She was not alone. Something within the cavern stirred. It made no move toward her, but it shifted its weight so that its presence would be known.

  We have waited such a long time, mistressss: a thousand years in our chains of blood. Dare you make us wait a thousand more?

  Ash felt her knees buckle. The voice pulled.

  In the distance, beyond where she could see, beyond even the walls of the cave, creatures with muzzles howled. Shadows flickered upon the surface of the ice, man shapes and beasts and demon horses. And then suddenly there was no ice at all, just darkness that stretched toward a place where Ash knew in the deepest depths of her soul that she did not want to be.

  Reach, mistressss. Pretty mistressss. Reach.

  At her side, the bones in her wrists twisted. Saddles of muscle in her chest and back tensed, ready to pull weight. Tendons strained. Fingers uncurled, forcing a closed fist into an open hand as knuckles cracked like wet sticks.

  Reach for us. Reach for us. REACH.

  Bones glided in their sockets as Ash’s arms began to rise.

  Kaaw! A raven’s cry pierced the darkness, jolting Ash’s body like a needle in her spine.

  Her eyes sprang open. The darkness sped away in a long blurred streak. She was in her chamber. The embers in the brazier glowed with a faint orange light. Both amber lamps were dead.

  Knocking.

  Ash’s head spun around toward the source of the sound. Not the door, but the tiny shuttered window on the opposite side of the room. She waited. The noise didn’t come again, but a soft tearing sound, like the flap of wings beating air, faded into the distance. A bird. Ash shuddered. A raven.

  Suddenly aware of how cold and wet the sheets were, she tugged them from her body. Her nightdress was soaking, so she pulled it over her head and threw it the way of the sheets. Freezing and naked, she ran over to the charcoal brazier and knelt in its warm glow. Using the little copper tongs that were hooked at its base, she stirred the embers within. The oil-soaked felt had long since burned away, taking the odor of almonds and sandalwood with it. Ash was glad. She was in no mood to breathe in rich and sickly scents.

  Her hands shook as she replaced the tongs. A haze of cold sweat covered her skin, and her knees felt as shaky as if she had run up all the stairs in the Cask without pausing to rest halfway. With a small sigh, she pulled at the corners of the needlepoint rug she was kneeling on, drawing the soft green wool around her shoulders and making a little pocket for herself in the center. She was so tired. All she wanted to do was sleep.

  Feeling a bit better for being wrapped up, she glanced over to the door. The empty bolt holes stood as a reminder that either Marafice Eye or Penthero Iss could enter her chamber any time they pleased. Not that Marafice Eye ever had, but Ash knew he was out there, sitting on a graymeet bench, big hands testing the give of the leather bindings on his tunic or pushing against the bench’s armrests, bringing the entire weight of his body to bear upon any flaws he found in the stone. He was always testing things to see what it took to break them.

  Ash pulled the rug closer. She had tried to avoid Marafice Eye for the past week, ever since the night he had first blocked her way on the steps. The Knife didn’t like to be avoided, though, and had now taken to blocking her way whenever he safely could. If he met Ash alone in a corridor or on the stairs, he would step directly in front of her and wait, forcing her to walk around him. He never touched her, never spoke, but his small lips would twist with pleasure and his small eyes would look beyond her as if she weren’t there at all. Like the armrests on the bench and the leather of his tunic, she had become yet another thing to push to breaking.

  Ash tugged a hand through her hair. She was a foundling, alive only because Penthero Iss had chosen to save her. She wasn’t a noblewoman and she wasn’t a servant, so where did she fit in? Marafice Eye didn’t know; that was why he was testing her: to see just how far he could go before Iss stopped him.

  “Miss.” A soft voice whispered through the door. “Can I enter, miss?”

  Ash didn’t want to see anyone. Not now, not like this. “Go away,” she mumbled. Disgusted by how weak her voice sounded, she tried again. “I’m tired, Katia. Let me sleep.”

  “I’ve brought some hot milk and rose cakes.”

  So Iss had sent her. Ash stood, allowing the rug to drop flat on the floor. “Wait a moment while I dress.” There was no point in sending Katia away, not when she was under orders from Iss; the girl would just stand outside the door all night, calling every few minutes for permission to enter until she wore Ash down. Penthero Iss never raised his voice, never threatened violence, but he had a way of getting people to do exactly as he wished.

  Wrapping a fresh linen robe around her shoulders, Ash took a few deep breaths and tried to settle herself back to normal. More and more these days it was harder to remember what normal was, though. She never felt like herself, she was always tired and sweating and cold. Then there was her body . . . Ash glanced down. That definitely wasn’t normal anymore. Breasts had come from nowhere in just two months.

  “You can come in now.” Ash stepped into the corner as she spoke. She didn’t want Marafice Eye to see her as Katia opened the door.

  Katia was small and olive skinned, with dark eyes and dark lips and black curls that spat out pins. Ash could never look at the girl without feeling a stab of envy. Katia made her feel pale and bony and straight. Everything of Katia’s curved: her lips, her cheeks, her hips, her hair. Ash’s own hair fell as sheer as water, pale and silver blond, down past her waist. Ash had tried hot irons, damp rags, pins, and nightly braiding, yet her hair would have none of it, defying her every time by unraveling straight.

  “Put the tray on the stand, Katia.”

  Katia jumped at the sound of Ash’s voice. “There you are, miss. Gave me such a fright hiding behind the door.”

  Ash ignored Katia’s statement. The girl was always claiming fright over something.r />
  Having placed the copper tray on the stand, Katia moved over to the mantel to relight the lamps. Briefly Ash considered speaking up to stop her, then decided against it. Penthero Iss had doubtless given Katia orders to take a good look at her mistress, and the fastest way to get the whole thing over and done with was to let her go right ahead. As Katia refilled the lamp with the small pieces of amber that she kept in a cloth bag around her waist, Ash took the opportunity to smooth down her hair and rub her face. She wished she didn’t feel so shaky. But there was nothing to be done about that.

  “One should be enough,” Ash said after the wick thrust into the oil-and-amber mixture took the spark. “Come here, and let’s have it over and done with.”

  “Have what done with, miss?”

  Ash smiled. Katia was a terrible liar. “Well, my foster father obviously sent you to check up on me, so go right ahead and check.” She held out her arms, letting her robe fall open around her breasts. “Should I strip naked, or will this be enough?”

  Katia shook her head, black curls bouncing. “Why, you’re wicked, miss! Plain wicked. His Lordship never said such a thing. I came here to bring you a late supper out of the goodness of my own heart, and this is what I get for my trouble!” She nodded in the direction of Ash’s silver-banded dressing table, where an untidy stack of books and folded manuscripts looked set to topple over. “Been reading too much for your own good, if you ask me. A hot supper’s just a hot supper, you know. Nothing’s attached but the skin on the milk.”

  Suddenly glad Katia was there, Ash pulled her robe together. Katia had been with her for fourteen months now—longer than any other maid she’d ever had—and it felt good to know someone well enough to tease them. “I’m sorry, Katia. But the rose cakes always give Iss away. They’re quite tasteless, smell like old roses, and cost a small fortune to prepare.”

  Katia snorted, but quietly. “Well, if you don’t want them . . .”

  “Take them. In future, if you must interrupt me in the middle of the night, bring me fresh bread, salt butter and lots of it, and beer instead of milk. A dark brew, mind. One that’s thick enough to float a spoon and has to be sieved through a cheesecloth to remove the hops.” Ash tried to keep her face straight as she spoke, but the word cheesecloth proved too much, and she burst out laughing.