by J. V. Jones
As if aware of Raif’s thoughts, Raina Blackhail pulled the bear pelt close around her shoulders. Tears shone in her eyes. She made no motion to speak, made no gestures with her hand or head, simply held Raif’s gaze as surely as if she were holding his arm. Her husband was dead, and she meant for him to remember that fact.
Kill Bludd! Kill Bludd!
“Hold your cries!” Mace Blackhail cried, raising the Clansword above his head as he stepped upon a table close to the center of the room. His black dogskin pants and tunic had been slashed by his own hand, and his wolf lore lay on the outside for all to see. With his dark hair, dark clothes, and yellow wolf tooth shining against his skin, he looked fierce and full of rage. The Clansword fit his grip perfectly, and already he had its weight and balance judged.
The clan quieted. Thanks to Ballic the Red’s arrow, the fire now gave off a flickering uneven light. Dark smoke vented from the cooling embers in thin plumes. Around the walls of the Great Hearth, torches burned with the crackle and putter of things just lit.
Mace Blackhail waited for perfect silence. The Clansword gleamed like black ice as he spoke. “We must make raids and make war—we know that now. Our warriors must ride east and meet the Bluddsmen full on. Now more than ever we need a strong man to lead us. War is never solely about battle. We must make alliances, mass ourselves, know our weaknesses and use our strengths. We can never replace Dagro Blackhail, and I for one will fight anyone here and now who claims otherwise.” Mace brought the Clansword down and swept it in a half circle around his chest. For a fraction of a second his gaze rested on Raif, then his lips twisted minutely and he looked away.
Finding none who would speak up against the dead, he continued. “Yet choose a leader we must. All here have the right to draw the Clansword and claim the Blackhail name. As a Blackhail by fosterage, I have more rights than some, but that’s not what I called you here to say. What I mean to state here, before all clansmen and yearmen and women with due respect, is that I will pledge myself to any man who is named clan chief and follow him until I die.”
Mace Blackhail’s words stunned the clan. Mouths fell open, breath was inhaled. Old Turby Flapp lost his grip on his spear, and it went clattering to the floor. The crofter to Raif’s side pulled up his chin and whispered to his companion that it was “a fine thing for Mace Blackhail to do.” Raif waited. Like everyone else he was surprised by Mace Blackhail’s words, yet he knew it wasn’t the end. Even as Mace Blackhail lowered the sword, the chorus began.
“A Blackhail is as a Blackhail does.” Corbie Meese stepped into the center of the room, the boiled hide of his coat armor embellished only by his hammerman’s chains. “Mace has shown himself to be a true clansman like his father before him, and I for one would be proud to follow his banns into battle.” With that, Corbie laid his great iron-headed hammer on the ground beneath Mace Blackhail’s feet.
“I’ll second that.” It was Ballic the Red, stepping forward with his braced yewwood bow. “The moment the badlands raid happened, Mace Blackhail’s first thoughts were for those who were left at home. Now I don’t mean to speak ill of the two Sevrance lads—all here agree that what they did was right and fitting—but to my mind Mace Blackhail acted like a clan chief from the start.”
Raif closed his eyes as calls of “Aye!” circled the room. He heard Ballic the Red lay his bow by Corbie Meese’s hammer, and when he opened his eyes again Orwin Shank and thin-bearded Will Hawk were doing likewise with their axes and swords. Along the east wall, yearmen shifted restlessly against their benches. It wasn’t their place to move before full clansmen and women with due respect.
Other clansmen came and laid their weapons by Mace Blackhail’s feet. The twins Cull and Arlec Byce crossed their matching limewood axes on top of the growing pile. Still, some men held back. Shor Gormalin was the most notable. Standing close to Raina Blackhail, he watched the proceedings with glinting eyes, not a muscle on his lean face moving. Others, many older clansmen like Gat Murdock and the fierce little bowman whom everyone called the Lowdraw, took his lead and did the same. Raif noticed several clansmen and most of the clanswomen looking to Raina Blackhail.
When it was obvious that all the full clansmen who were prepared to come forward had done so, Mace Blackhail pressed the flat edge of the Clansword to his heart. His black hair and close-trimmed beard made his skin look as pale as ice formed around a window at night. His teeth were strong and white. A few had the sharp-edged look of fangs.
Turning, he addressed his words to Raina alone. “What say you, Foster Mother? I did not ask for this, and in truth I am not sure that I want it. And no matter how much my fellow clansmen’s support stirs my heart, what you think matters more.”
Raif ground his teeth together to stop himself from crying out. Mace Blackhail wasn’t even a full clansman! He was a yearman, like Drey, pledging himself one year at a time to his clan, until he married or settled and was ready to commit himself wholly and for life. Most yearmen pledged to their birthclans, but some married elsewhere, or fostered elsewhere, or found themselves better needed and more valued at a foreign roundhouse far from home.
Raif sucked in breath. His gaze flicked to Raina Blackhail, who stood in her own space, slightly apart from the other women. Mace Blackhail had put her in a difficult position; to speak against blood or fosterkin in front of clan was unthinkable. Most especially against a foster son who had just paid his foster mother a compliment far greater than due respect.
Spent air burned as it left Raif’s lungs. Mace Blackhail maneuvered like the wolf he was: isolating his target, then forcing it to run alone.
Raina Blackhail was not the sort of woman to be hurried, though, and with a slow shrug of her shoulders she let the black bear pelt fall to the floor. Everyone in the Great Hearth watched as she deliberately stepped upon it. Her lips and cheeks were pale, her dress of housespun wool dyed a subtle shade of gray. The only bright spots on her entire body were the blood seeping from her widow’s weals and the film of unshed tears across her eyes.
“Foster son,” she said, placing a slight but unmistakable emphasis on the word foster. “Like my husband before me I am a person rarely given to hasty judgment. You have spoken well, and humbly, and have gained the support of many of the clansmen who lie above you in rank.” A pause followed, where Raina let the clansmen remember for themselves that her foster son was but a yearman.
For the first time since he had entered the chamber Raif felt a spark of hope. No one in the clan was respected as highly as Raina Blackhail.
“I believe you are a strong man, Mace Blackhail,” Raina continued, “with a strong will and a strong arm and the ability to make others do your bidding. I have seen you on the practice court and know you wield both the ax and the greatsword deftly. You are clever with words—as the men from Clan Scarpe so often are—and I suspect you will be clever at battle as well. Given these qualities, you may indeed make an excellent clan chief. However, I am Dagro Blackhail’s widow, and his respect is my due, and as such I demand that no decision be made tonight.”
As the last words left Raina Blackhail’s lips and the clan responded to the mettle in her voice, Raif heard the pounding of footsteps on the outer stairs. Even as he gave silent thanks for Raina Blackhail’s caution and saw for himself that no man or woman present would dare defy her on this matter, the double doors of the Great Hearth burst open.
A clansman, his forehead and cheeks red with sudden exposure to heat, his nose and eyes running, and his oilskins shedding snow, dashed into the room, stumbling forward in his haste. Breathless, his hair damp with sweat and his boots lip high in mud, he stood a moment, gulping great mouthfuls of air to still himself. Raif recognized him after a moment as Will Hawk’s son, Bron. A yearman, fostered to Dhoone.
Raif felt his skin cool as surely as if Bron Hawk had brought the cold from outside with him. His stomach knotted, and beneath his buckskin tunic and wool shirt, his raven lore burned cold like ice.
All gathered held their breath a
s they waited for Bron Hawk to speak. Mace Blackhail and the pile of pledged weapons standing below him were forgotten. Raina Blackhail’s words and her husband’s final token lying beneath her feet slid from the clan’s minds like runoff down a slope. Five hundred pairs of eyes focused with blind intent toward the door.
Bron Hawk pushed the fair hair from his face. After a brief glance around the chamber, his gaze finally rested upon Raina Blackhail and the small swordsman Shor Gormalin, who stood at her back. “Clan Bludd has taken the Dhoonehouse,” he said. “Five nights ago. They slaughtered three hundred Dhoonesmen with weapons that drew no blood.”
A single hiss of shock and anger united the room. Raif felt the knot in his stomach unfold with soft liquid slowness. No one would ever question Mace Blackhail’s story about the badlands raid again.
EIGHT
Trapping in the Oldwood
Come on. Put on your coat and oilskin. You’re coming with me.” Raina Blackhail grabbed the corner of Effie’s blanket and heaved it from the pallet.
Effie Sevrance blinked. The lamplight hurt her eyes, and she didn’t much like the idea of going outside. The land beyond the roundhouse was big and open and cold. A person could get lost on the fellfields and never be found. “Please, Raina, I don’t want—”
“No, my girl,” Raina said, cutting her short. “I don’t care what you say. You need some fresh air on that pale face of yours, and sure as the Stone Gods created the clanholds, I’m going to see you get it.” She patted Effie’s thigh. “Come on now. We’re going to the Oldwood to check my traps, and I want to be there and back before morning’s end.”
Moving around the small cell where Effie slept alone, Raina Blackhail plucked oilskin, dog mitts, and a wool coat from the chair and the dog hook where they had been neatly hung or folded. Effie told herself she didn’t mind Raina being here, not really. She wasn’t like some people who just wanted to be nosy and make fun. Letty Shank was always here, stealing stones, scattering them around the chamber, snatching the lore from Effie’s neck and wearing it herself. “Look at me,” she’d call to Mog Wiley and all the others. “As dim as the rock the clan guide gave me.”
Effie bit her lip. Everyone would laugh as if it were the funniest thing they’d ever heard. Crowding around Letty Shank, they would try to take the lore from her, anxious to wear it themselves.
Rising from the box pallet, Effie frowned at Raina. Raina wanted to put on the coat and mitts for her, but Effie preferred to do it herself.
This made Raina smile. “There’s some good rocks out on the west side of Oldwood, you know, by Hissip Gluff’s place. You might be able to find something new for your collection.”
“They’re sandstone,” Effie said. “Like the roundhouse.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that, Effie Sevrance. When I was up there last I could swear I saw something shining beneath my fox trap.”
“You did?” Effie was instantly interested. She knew Raina Blackhail wasn’t the sort of woman to lie about anything, most especially rocks.
Raina bent and kissed the top of Effie’s head. “Yes. Hurry now. If your oilskins and boots aren’t on in the next minute, I’ll have Longhead come down here and plant mushrooms over your bed. I swear it’s wet enough to grow them here.” She shivered. “I really do.”
Effie almost laughed at the idea of mushrooms growing on her bed, but she didn’t like the way Raina had turned up her pitch lamp and was now looking around the little stone cell with a disapproving air. Effie spoke to head her off. “I don’t want to go and sleep with the other girls. Please. Anwyn has given me her best goatswool blanket. And I keep a torch burning most of the night.”
The worried look that always made Effie feel bad appeared on Raina’s face. “Bind your mitts tightly,” was all she said. “It’s white weather outside.”
Effie liked the roundhouse best in early morning. Few people were around, mouthwatering smells of bacon and scorched onions wafted up from the kitchen, and light pouring through the high windows promised good things to come. It was as if whatever had gone on the day before was completely canceled out. As they walked up the ramp to the entrance hall, the only person they encountered was the luntwoman Nellie Moss. The skin on Nellie’s hands was red and shiny with old scars from torch burns, and all the other children including Letty Shank and Mog Wiley were afraid of her. Effie wasn’t . . . not quite. Nellie Moss got to move about the roundhouse unheeded and did most of her work in the dark. Effie rather liked the idea of that.
Raina Blackhail stopped Nellie from walking straight past by putting a hand on the luntwoman’s arm. “Any sign of their return?”
Nellie shook her head. “Nay. None’s come back this night.”
Raina nodded. The worried look crossed her face again. “If they do come back, be sure to let them know I’m in the Oldwood with my traps. I’ll be back before noon.”
“In the Oldwood with yer traps,” repeated Nellie in her low mannish voice.
Effie thought she saw something unpleasant in Nellie Moss’ face, but when she blinked it was gone. Briefly Effie remembered the little luntman Wennil Drook, who had lit the torches before Nellie. Effie didn’t believe what anyone said about him stealing Corbie Meese’s knife. Wennil had known things about rocks. Hardly a week went by in summer when he didn’t bring her some new bit of stone for her collection.
“Effie. Pull up your hood.”
Effie did as Raina said, and together they left the roundhouse by the side door that led out past the guidehouse to the stables. Everything, the stables, the graze, the clay court, and the gray stone roof of the guidehouse, was covered in a thick layer of snow. Even the little stream that ran behind the birches—the one Orwin Shank called the Leak on account of its yellowy green water—was now running beneath a sheet of snow-covered ice. It had been snowing on and off for seven days now, ever since Bron Hawk had returned from Dhoone.
The clan had split up the following morning. Mace Blackhail and his pledged men had ridden east to scout the Dhoonehouse. Drey was in the party . . . Effie worried about that. Raif had gone with Shor Gormalin and others to Clan Gnash, to learn what they could from the Gnash chief, who shared borders with Blackhail and Dhoone. More men still had been put on east- and southwatch, and all tied clansmen had been ordered to the roundhouse to defend it in case of raids. Mace’s and Shor’s parties were due back any day. Then there would be a big meet where only the sworn clansmen were allowed.
Effie supposed they would make Mace Blackhail chief. Finally.
“Don’t just stand there, Effie Sevrance,” Raina said, following the much trodden path toward the stables. “You must help me kit and saddle Mercy.”
Glancing over the graze to the low sandstone ridge that lay beyond, Effie chewed on her lip. The snow made everything seem wide open. Vast. The countryside stopped being identifiable parts, like the sheep graze and the cow graze and Longhead’s apple orchard and the Wedge, and became one whole thing instead.
Inside her chest, Effie’s heart began to beat a little faster. The land was a big white nothingness, like the spaces in dreams that stretched on and on and on . . .
“Oh no you don’t, Effie Sevrance,” Raina said, tugging on her arm. “You’re not bolting on me this time. There’s nothing to be afraid of, only fresh air and snow. I won’t leave you. I promise.”
Effie let herself be dragged into the stables. She liked the stables, but not as much as the dog cotes. The stables were enclosed by thick stone walls, but they were large and high roofed, and there was too much space above a person’s head. Not like the cotes. The little dog cote was so low that no grown man could stand in it. Effie grinned at the memory of Shor Gormalin’s bent back as he’d come to drag her from it two weeks ago. He was nice, Shor Gormalin. He’d understood when she’d told him that she hadn’t really run away at all. “Just finding a fair spot to think,” he had said with a thoughtful nod of his head. “I can see that. Do it myself from time to time. Though I daresay I’m inclined to
pick somewhere warmer and less chancy than the dog cotes. Those shankshounds could tear off a man’s head.”
Shankshounds. Effie’s grin widened. Orwin Shank’s dogs were as soft as puppies around her.
Seeing Effie smile, Raina smiled. “It’ll be nice, you know. I’ve grilled us some apple slices wrapped in bacon.”
Suddenly feeling a lot better, Effie began buckling Mercy’s bridle. She loved it when Raina smiled.
When the filly was saddled and two empty leather saddlebags were laid over her docks, Raina trotted her onto the court. The Oldwood lay to the west of the roundhouse, past the graze and up over the north ridge. Tall spires of paper birch and black spruce broke the skyline, and high overhead a line of geese flew south. Fresh snow crackled beneath Effie’s boots, its surface hardened by overnight frost. It was bitterly cold, and Effie could feel her cheeks burning beneath her fox hood. Ice crystals glittered on the branches of Longhead’s saplings.
Effie crossed her arms over her chest and walked with her mitted hands thrust under her armpits. Winter always came fast to Clan Blackhail. Da said it was because . . .
Effie stopped dead.
There was no Da.
Da had gone.
“Effie.” Raina spoke softly, her voice sounding very far away. “It’s all right, little one. You’ll be safe with me. I swear it.”
Something hurt at the back of Effie’s eyes. She blinked, but it wouldn’t go away. Raina said things and squeezed her shoulder, but Effie barely felt or heard. Her lore pressed against her collarbone like a poking finger. Da was gone. And she had known something wasn’t right from the very first morning he’d ridden away. Her lore had told her so.
“Come on, Effie Sevrance. Up on Mercy.” Effie felt Raina’s hands slip under her arms and lift her clear off the ground. She saw the sky come closer, white and choked with snow clouds, then felt her bottom come down on the hard leather saddle. “There. Take the reins. Mercy will treat you well. Won’t you, Mercy?” Raina patted her filly’s neck.