A Cavern of Black Ice (21 page)

It was dark now, a full four hours past
noon. Mace Blackhail had had plenty of time to regain charge of the
roundhouse. Raif really didn't see how rushing from the stables to
hear what the self-appointed clan chief had to say would make one
whit of difference to anything and anybody. Whatever new schemes Mace
Blackhail had conceived were doubtless well under way by now.

Kicking hay from his path, Raif walked
along the stable's central aisle. Drey would be inside with Mace
Blackhail. Drey, who, if Raina Blackhail hadn't spoken up at the
meeting before the yearmen had had chance to pledge their weapons,
would have gladly laid his hammer at Mace Blackhail's feet. Raif
could still see the eagerness in his older brother's face. It
sickened him. It tainted everything they'd gone through together at
the camp.

Raif tasted bitterness in his mouth as
he worked the bolts on the stable door. Now that Drey had spent the
past seven days riding out with Mace Blackhail, he would be
completely under the Wolfs control. Another member of his pack.
Nothing drew men closer than shared danger. Mace Blackhail had
personally asked Drey to accompany him on the ranging to Dhoone.

A sound not much like laughter escaped
from Raif's throat. At the same time he was hand-picking one brother,
Mace Blackhail was trying his damnedest to get the other brother sent
away on westwatch. Westwatch, a hundred leagues west of the
roundhouse in the cold blue shadows of the Coastal Ranges, where old
clansmen who wanted nothing more out of life than to fish, hunt
goats, smoke heatherweed, and sing the old songs of how Ayan
Blackhail killed the last Dhoone King went to end their days.

Shor Gormalin had stepped in to stop
it, though. "I'll take the Sevrance lad wi' me to Gnash,"
he had said. "By all accounts he's handy with a bow, and we
canna afford to waste even one able man in times such as these. I'll
keep my eye on him, make sure he doesna stray."

No one, not even Mace Blackhail, could
argue with the most respected swordsman in the clan, so Raif had
found himself one of a party of ten riding out to gather intelligence
from Gnash.

It had been a hard seven days. They had
ridden day and night. One man's horse had collapsed beneath him, and
all mounts had to be changed at Duff's Stovehouse halfway. On the
return journey they had changed their horses back. Shor Gormalin had
said nothing about speed or haste, driven no man into the saddle
before he had taken his black beer and larded bread in the morning,
yet somehow he had created in everyone a burning desire to get back.
More than once Raif found himself wondering if it had been Shor
Gormalin's intent to return to the roundhouse before Mace Blackhail.
Raif shrugged, but not lightly. If it was, the small fair-haired
swordsman had failed by half a day.

Done with the final iron bolt, Raif
drew up his fox hood and braced himself for the short run to the
roundhouse. It could not be put off any longer; his borrowed horse
was brushed down and fed, and it was getting to the point where his
absence would be missed. It was time to face Mace Blackhail once
more.

The air outside was cold and still.
Raif hardly seemed to be in it a moment before he was shouting his
name through the heavily tarred oak of the roundhouse greatdoor and
gaining access to the warmth and the light.

The roundhouse was crowded and noisy.
Tied clansfolk stood in groups, clogging passageways, stairwells, and
halls. Dressed in brain-tanned hides and roughspun woolens, they
worried out loud about their crofts, their ewes, their children, and
their future. Raif had never seen so many farmers and crofters in the
roundhouse at one time before, not even in the heart of winter.
Whoever had been sent out to the far reaches of the clanhold to bring
them in had done a fine job. Raif couldn't put names to a good third
of the people he passed.

Fewer full clansmen and yearmen crowded
the halls, but that didn't mean anything. Mace Blackhail probably had
them gathered in the Great Hearth for a meet.

"Raif! Over here!"

Raif recognized his brother's voice
before he saw him. Hiking himself up on a luntstone, he peered over
the crowd in the entrance hall. Although he had planned to be distant
with his brother, the minute he saw Drey standing by the far wall,
the muck and grease of the road still , upon him and the shadow of a
seven-day beard darkening his jaw, he breathed a sigh of relief. Drey
was home. He looked tired. His braid was matted with fox fur, and the
hammerman's chains that stretched across his boiled leather armor
looked as if they'd been blackened in a fire. Apart from a few broken
veins across the bridge of his nose, his face looked unchanged.

Keeping his place across the hall, Drey
waited for his brother to join him.

The two clasped hands. "Have you
seen Effie?" were Raifs first words.

Drey shook his head. "No, but
others have. She was out in the Oldwood with Raina. Anwyn saw her
return. Said she was as quiet as a mouse and slipped off to her cell.
Anwyn sent Letty Shank down with some milk and bannock."

Raif nodded. A long moment of silence
passed.

"So," Drey said, speaking to
break it, "you and the others returned safely?"

"Yes. The Gnash roundhouse is full
to bursting with Dhoonesmen. All those who escaped or were away from
the roundhouse when it was taken are gathering at the old strongwall
there." As Raif spoke he noticed Drey glance at the stairs that
led up to the Great Hearth. "Another meeting?" he said, his
voice hardening.

Drey looked down.

Raif breathed before he spoke. It was
hard to keep the anger from his voice. "When were you going to
tell me, Drey? Once it was over and done?"

Drey shook his head. "No. It's not
what you think. Mace Blackhail wants to marry Raina and he—"

"
Raina
?" Raif
inhaled sharply. He felt as if he'd been thrown into the middle of a
game that made no sense. "She'd never marry Mace Blackhail.
She's his foster mother… she spoke up against him at the last
meet…" Raif shook his head savagely. "She hates
him."

Drey swore. "Don't start that
again, Raif."

"Start what?" To Raifs ears
his voice sounded sullen.

"Twisting the truth. Making up
things. Embarrassing us." Drey ran a hand over his beard.
"You're not the only one who has to live with the consequences
of what you say. If you don't care about me and my standing in the
clan, I understand that, but at least think about Effie.

"She's young. Now Da's gone she
needs the clan to look after her. And every time you open your mouth
and say something bad about Mace Blackhail, you hurt her as well as
yourself." Drey reached out to touch Raif's arm, but Raif pulled
away. With a small, unconvincing shrug, Drey let his hand fall to his
side. "Mace Blackhail is going to be clan chief, Raif. And
you're going to have to accept that—for all our sakes."

Raif looked at his brother carefully.
He had a suspicion that Drey had been practicing his piece about
family and clan loyalty for quite some time. The words had a stilted,
preprepared feel to them, and they didn't sound right for Drey. They
sounded more like something Mace Blackhail would say. Raif's lips
twisted to a smile. "How long have you been waiting for me,
Drey? Did Mace Blackhail make you stand watch, here, in the hall? Did
he tell you that I couldn't be allowed into the Great Hearth until
I'd listened to what you had to say, then nodded like a good brother
should?"

The color in Drey's face rose as Raif
spoke. "It wasn't like that, Raif. I was worried that the clan
might turn against you… and Mace said that a man never listens
to reason about himself, but when he's made to think of his family
he'll—"

Raif grabbed his brother by the
shoulders. He needed to make him
see
. "Drey. Listen to
me. I'm not going to do anything to harm you and Effie. Mace
Blackhail's putting words in your mouth. It was you and me who were
together at the badlands camp. You and me. We saw what we saw, and
while we kept to our story, Mace Blackhail kept switching his."

Drey pulled himself free of Raif's
grip. "Stop it, Raif! Just stop it! Mace warned me you were too
young to listen." With a disgusted shake of his head, Drey
turned and made his way to the stairs.

Raif watched his brother go. After a
time his hand rose to his lore and his fist closed around the hard
piece of horn. Hate poured out of him, flushing his skin and stinging
the back of his throat. He'd been back for only an hour and already
Mace Blackhail was turning the knife.

Aware that people were looking at him,
Raif let his lore fall to his chest. He was shaking, and it took an
effort to bring his body under control. Smoothing his hair and
clothes, he followed Drey's path to the Great Hearth. Deliberately,
he kept his thoughts away from his brother. He wouldn't think about
Drey now.

The stairs were crowded with people.
Children raced up and down, shrieking and giggling wildly. Groups of
women sat on steps, talking in quiet voices, chewing on slices of
dried fruit, and mending bits of cloth and leather harnesses. Twice
as many torches were burning as normal, and bands of greasy black
smoke choked the air. Raif resisted the desire to push people out of
his way. Didn't they have anywhere else to go? Why hadn't Anwyn Bird
moved them to cells of their own?

He came to a halt by the Great Hearth
door. Two clansmen stood guard before it. They crossed spears the
moment they saw him.

Rory Gleet, golden haired, blue eyed,
and the object of much excited interest on the part of the maidens of
Clan Blackhail, was the first to speak. "Can't come in, Raif.
Sorry. Mace Blackhail's orders. Sworn clansmen and yearmen only."

Bev Shank, the youngest of the Shank
boys and not even a yearman himself, nodded. "Sorry, Raif.
Nothing personal."

"Mace Blackhail isn't chief yet.
He's got no right to give orders." Raif stepped forward.
"Besides, when was the last time either of you can remember
armed guards being posted outside the Great Hearth?" Bev and
Rory exchanged a glance.

Rory Gleet sucked in his lips, lowered
his black steel spearhead a fraction. "Look, Raif. This is
nothing to do with me. Mace Blackhail says watch that none but sworn
clansmen enter, so that's what I'm doing. It's only fitting that
those who have spoken oaths have the right to speak clan business in
private." Rory's blue eyes looked straight into Raif's. "There's
talk of Inigar hearing oaths next week, and mayhap you and Bev can
step forward and become yearmen along with the rest. Then when you
come to me demanding entry, I'll be more than happy to let you pass."

Raif shook his head. He liked Rory—he
was a friend of Drey's and wasn't a bit full of himself despite his
good, looks—but he was in no mood to have anyone prevent him
from entering the Great Hearth. Shouldering closer to the door, he
said, "Let me pass."

"Can't do it, Raif." Rory
Gleet pressed the flat of his spear against Raif's arm. Raif grabbed
the spear shaft and pulled forward hard. As Rory stumbled forward,
Raif smashed his fist into Rory's fingers. Rory's fingers sprang
apart and he lost his top grip on the spear. Furious, Rory swung a
punch, clipping Raif's ear and making him fall forward against
the door. Wood cracked. Even before Raif could take a breath, he felt
the point of Bev Shank's spear on his kidney.

"Step away, Raif," he said,
his red Shank's cheeks flushed with excitement.

Raif felt the door behind him open. He
stumbled back. Warm, smokeless air breathed along the back of his
neck. Someone stepped forward from inside the room.

"What have we here?" It was
Mace Blackhail. Fingers tapped against leather as he spoke. "The
Sevrance lad causing trouble again, I see." Raif twisted his
neck around in time to see Mace Blackhail shake his head at someone
in the room. "I thought you were going to take your brother in
hand, Drey?"

Raif winced. Grabbing the shaft of Bev
Shank's spear, he pushed the tip away from him. Things were going
from bad to worse. He couldn't hear all of Drey's reply, but the
words Sorry,
Mace
came through clearly.

"By the weight of the Stone Gods,
Mace, what did you expect? Keeping a guard outside the door."
Orwin Shank came forward and grabbed Raifs arm. "Got yourself in
the middle of it again, eh, lad?" He winked at his son. "Good
job wi' that spear, Bev."

Bev grinned at his da.

Rory Gleet stood back, his eyes not
leaving Raif for a second. The fingers on his right hand were already
beginning to blacken and swell.

Raif went to say something to him, but
Orwin Shank hauled him through to the Great Hearth before he had
chance to speak. "No sense in leaving the lad out there,"
he said, shutting the door behind them. "He rode out to Gnash
with Shor Gormalin. His report will be as good as any."

"Aye," Shor Gormalin said
from his place near the fire. "Bring the lad over to me. I'll
vouch for him."

Raif glanced around the room. Three
hundred clansmen and year-men were gathered, backs bristling with
case-hardened arms and strung bows, boiled hides and blue steel
strapped across their chests. Not one woman was present. Not even
Raina Blackhail.

Mace Blackhail took a thin breath,
clearly displeased. Raif thought it highly likely that Bev and Rory
had been set outside the door solely to keep him out. "This is
men's parley tonight," Mace said, extending I his arm to block
Raifs path. "Anyone who doesn't know what it feels like to
thrust a hand up a girl's skirt has no business being present."

Along the east wall of the room, two
dozen yearmen found something interesting to look at on the floor.
Some coughed nervously, others blushed. Huge hound-headed Banron Lye,
who had turned yearman only last spring but looked
a
good
ten years older than his age, cracked his knuckles one by one. Raif
glanced at Drey, who was standing close to a bloodwood stang.
Although he made a point of not meeting his brother's eyes, he
noticed that Drey wasn't among those who looked down at his feet
while Mace spoke. Raif ran a hand over his roughly shaved chin. He
knew less about his brother than he thought.