A Cavern of Black Ice (23 page)

"He'll marry you, Raina. You have
my word on it." It was Bailie the Red, his normally fierce voice
soft enough to calm a frightened child. "I'd have his balls for
my waxing pouch if he didn't."

A tear slid down Raina's cheek.

"Raina." Shor Gormalin came
forward. He tried to touch her arm, but she pulled back. The
swordsman frowned. Holding up his hands for her to see, so that she
knew he would not touch her again, he said, "Raina, you know I
will stand beside you whatever you decide, but I must know the truth
of it. Did you join with Mace in the Oldwood?"

Raina made no reply. The room was quiet
except for the sound of Nellie Moss tending the torches. Raif watched
the expression on Mace Blackhail's face; the Wolf's eyes were narrow,
and inside his mouth he was sucking on his cheeks. Slowly Mace turned
his head toward Raif. As his gaze met Raif's, his jaws sprang apart,
revealing strands of saliva quivering between his teeth. Raif had to
stop himself from stepping back. In the space of an eyeblink Mace was
himself once more, and Raif knew without looking that no one else had
seen his wolf face.

"Raina?" Shor Gormalin's
voice broke the silence. "You have nothing to fear by speaking
the—"

"Yes," Raina snapped, cutting
him short. "Yes, we joined in the Oldwood, if you can call it
that. Yes. Yes.
Yes
."

The small fair-haired swordsman closed
his eyes. A muscle in his cheek pumped once, then was still.

"That's settled, then," Orwin
Shank said with obvious relief. "You must marry Mace."

"Aye," cried Bailie the Red,
hands slipping beneath his boiled leather breastplate to find his
supply of chewing curd. "And we'll have an end of this scandal
before it has chance to smirch the clan."

"And if I choose not to marry?"
Raina asked, looking straight at Mace Blackhail.

Gat Murdock shook his head heavily,
blowing air between his toothless gums. Orwin Shank wrung sweat from
his shammy, and Ballic the Red took a handful of black curd between
his callused hands and squeezed them flat.

Mace Blackhail sent a small look their
way.
What am I to do with this woman
? it seemed to say. He
sighed. "Raina, you have been first woman in this clan for ten
years. You know more than anyone what becomes of a woman who allows
herself to be ill used by a man and then cast aside. All due respect
is lost. Ofttimes the woman is shunned or reviled, and judges it best
to leave the clan in order to escape the bad name she has bought
herself." Mace thought a moment. "And then there's the
question of a woman's possessions and wealth. All here have known
instances when a woman's own family have stripped the fine furs and
cut stones from her back."

Clansmen nodded gravely. Raif had heard
such stories himself, stories of women cast from the roundhouse
wearing only rough pigskins on their backs and boasting nothing more
than a week's worth of bread and mutton to their names.

"I'd try to do what I could, of
course…" Mace Blackhail dragged his words. "But even
I must bow to clan custom."

Raina smiled in such a way, it made
Raifs chest ache. "You are a Scarpe through and through. You can
take the truth and twist it into any basket you choose to shape. If
you were to cut me down with the Clansword here and now, within the
hour you'd have everyone nodding and patting your shoulder and
telling you how they'd known all along such a thing had to be done.
Well I shall marry you, Mace Blackhail of Clan Scarpe. I will not
give up my due respect and my position in the clan. And even though
this is what you counted on all along, it doesn't mean you won't live
to regret it in the end."

Shaking with anger, Raina looked around
the room. No clansman would meet her eyes. "You have chosen both
your chief and his wife in one night, and I will leave you well alone
now so you can slap each other on the backs and drink yourselves
sodden." With that she turned and began the short walk out of
the room. It was Drey who ran ahead of her to open the door, Drey who
closed it gently when she was gone.

Raif, along with dozens of others,
stared at the space Raina Blackhail had just vacated. The silence she
left pressed against his skin. No one wanted to be the first to speak
into it. After a long moment, Shor Gormalin hooked his great elk
cloak across his chest and walked from the room. As he passed close
to Mace Blackhail, Raif saw the swordsman's knuckles whiten upon the
hilt of his sword.

Mace Blackhail's thin-cheeked face was
pale. He no longer leaned casually against a stang, and for once the
Wolf was at a loss for words. After watching him for a minute or so,
Raif decided it was time to go. He had been right from the start:
Nothing he could do would make one whit of difference to anyone or
anybody. Mace Blackhail had it all in hand.

Even as he strode across the room and
Drey moved to open the great metal-girded door, Mace Blackhail
cleared his throat to speak. Raif passed from the room and didn't
hear what he said, but a few seconds later the voices of three or
four dozen clansmen filtered down along the stairs. Raif wasn't
surprised when the word they spoke was
Aye
.

Down Raif went, following a path
cleared by Raina Blackhail and Shor Gormalin before him. Crofters and
their families were silent as he passed. Those who had children with
them held them close, and Raif could only guess what had been showing
on Shor Gormalin's face to make them so afraid.

Raif made good time as he traced his
steps back to the stables. His chest was tight and his heart was
beating fast, and something sour burned in his throat. He needed to
get away. He wouldn't sleep tonight; the memory of Raina Blackhail's
face wouldn't let him.
What had Mace Blackhail done to her
?

The raven lore lay like ice against his
chest as he picked up his pack and bow from the horse stall where
he'd left them. Orwin Shank's horse whickered softly as he saddled
it, then sniffed his hands for treats. Raif found a couple of
frost-split apples in his pack and fed them to the gelding. It was a
good horse, with sturdy legs and a broad back. Orwin said its name
was Moose on account of it being surefooted on snow and ice.

Raif led his borrowed horse onto the
clay court, strung his borrowed horn and sinew bow, and strapped it
to his back. A pale moon rode low in the sky. The wind was rising and
from the north; it tasted of the badlands. Iced-over puddles crunched
beneath his boots. As he mounted the gelding, he noticed a second
horse's tracks freshly stamped on the court.
Shor Gormalin
,
he thought, kicking the gelding into a trot.

The land directly surrounding the
roundhouse was set aside for grazing sheep and cattle and was kept
free of all game by Longhead and his crew. If a man wanted to hunt he
had to ride northwest to the Wedge or south to the hemlock woods
beyond the ridge. The Old-wood was closer, but that was set aside for
trapping, not hunting. And trapping was for women, not men.

Raif rode south. Moose was not a swift
horse, but he gave a steady ride. Moonlight reflecting off the snow
made it easy to find a path, and horse and rider made good time. As
soon as he was free of the valley and onto the wooded slopes, ridges,
and grassy draws of the southern taiga, Raif began to search for
game. Frozen ponds with surface ice broken, tufts of hair snagged on
ground birch, hemlock girdled by wild boars and goats, and fresh
tracks stamped in the snow were signs he looked for. He didn't much
care what he brought down. He just needed to turn his mind from the
roundhouse and the people in it.

A hawk owl soared overhead, a mouse or
vole twitching in its claws. Raif watched as the bird flew down into
the cavity of a broken top snag. At the base of the lightning-blasted
tree, two eyes glowed golden for a instant and then winked out,
leaving darkness. Fox. One hand reining Moose, another reaching for
the bow at his back, Raif held his gaze on the fox space. The
bowstring was cold and stiff, but he didn't have time to run a finger
over it and warm the wax. He could no longer see the fox, but he knew
it was there, withdrawing slowly into the tangle of gorse and dogwood
beyond. Like most clansmen, Raif kept his arrows in a buckskin case
at his side to cut down on the sort of motion that sent game running,
and he slid an arrow from his pack and nocked it against the plate
all with a single movement. The bow ticked as he drew it.

Raif
called
the fox to him.
The space separating them condensed, and almost immediately he felt
the heat of the creature's blood against his cheek. He tasted its
fear. Everything sloughed away, leaving only him, the fox, and the
still line that lay between them. The raven lore itched against his
skin. This was what he wanted. Here at least he had some control.

Releasing the string was little more
than an afterthought. Although he could no longer see the fox, he had
its heart in his sights, and when his fingers lifted and the
arrow streaked forward, Raif knew without a shadow of a doubt that
the shot would find its mark.

The fox fell with barely a sound. A few
leaves rustled, fox weight thudded onto hard snow. Raif peered into
the killing ground beyond the base of the old snag. He wanted more.

Heart racing, he slid down from Moose,
bow in hand. Even as he took his first step upon the ice-crusted
snow, his breath crystallizing in the freezing air, he became aware
of another creature hiding far on the other side of the bluff, fast
against a year-old hemlock. As he raised his bow and sighted it, Raif
couldn't say if he had seen the animal's eyes, caught a glimpse of
its cowering form, or simply heard it move. It didn't matter. He
sensed it, that was all he knew.

The flight feathers on the arrow kissed
his cheek as he called the creature to him. It was a weasel, tick
infested and thick jointed with age. Its heart beat too fast in its
chest. Raif's hand was steady on the belly of his bow as he released
the string. By the time the twine came back, Raif was already looking
for something new to kill. His lore hummed against his chest, and his
bow sang in his hand. The night was alive, his senses were sharp, and
every pair of eyes shining in the darkness had Mace Blackhail's name
upon them.

Oaths and Dreams

Witcher of the Dead was out tonight.
The Listener knew because his dreams told him it was so. The Catcher
was a long way away, how far the Listener did not know. Dreams could
tell a man with no ears only so much.

"'Sadaluk! Sadaluk! You must wake
and come inside. An ice storm is on the way, Nolo says so."

The Listener was not happy at being
wakened. Although his dreams had gone, he was still listening to the
echoes they left behind. He opened one eye and then the other. Bala,
Sila's unwed sister, stood before him. She was dressed in fitted
sealskin pants and an otter coat. Her hood was framed with muskox
underfur, warm and golden as the setting sun. Very rare. Bala always
dressed nicely. Young men lined up from the smoking rack to the dog
posts for the privilege of gifting her with skins.

"Sadaluk. Nolo says you must join
us in our house. You have sat with your door open for so long that
your own house is too cold for waiting out a storm." Bala looked
over the Listener's shoulder as she spoke, peeking into his ground
beyond.

Sadaluk knew what she was after. "Have
you brought me a hot drink?" he asked, knowing well enough she
had not, as her hands were empty. "Bear soup? Boil-off from the
auks Sila caught and fermented?"

Bala looked down. "No, Sadaluk. I
am sorry. I did not think."

Sadaluk made a
tsking
sound.
"Your sister, Sila, would not have forgotten. Whenever she comes
she brings me soup."

"Yes, Sadaluk."

Bala looked so pretty looking down that
the Listener was inclined toward forgiveness. She didn't have Sila's
plump, pot-shaped lips, but her nose was the flattest in the tribe. A
man could run his hand from cheek to cheek and hardly feel the bump
in between. And Bala's hands were small as a baby's, made for
slipping down a man's pants without him ever having to unlace a
strap. The Listener sighed. The man who wedded Bala would be
fortunate indeed.

"Please, Sadaluk," Bala said,
tugging on his coat. "The storm will be here before we have
chance to seal the doors."

The Listener knew storms better than he
knew dreams, and although one was indeed on its way, it would not
arrive before dawn. "I shall not move from my seat," he
said. "My dreams call me back. Now run along and return home,
and be sure to tell Nolo that you did not think to bring me soup."

"Yes, Sadaluk." Again, Bala
glanced over his shoulder into his ground. She bit her lip. "Sadaluk.
Nolo also asked me if you could return his wound pin to him. The seal
carcass must be frozen by now."

The Listener
tsked
. The black
scars where his ears had once been ached with the kind of hollow pain
that only lost ears could. Nolo's wound pin was very old. It had been
made by the Old Blood far to the east and was beautiful beyond
imagining. Nolo was very proud of it, so much so that he was torn
between his desire to use it for what it was made for—fastening
seal wounds closed so blood didn't drain from carcasses before they
were brought home—and keeping it purely for show. Those times
when he did use it, he was always anxious to have it back.

The Listener stood. Bones cracked as he
moved, and the necklace of owl beaks he wore at his throat tinkled
like breaking ice. His boots needed tending, and want of blubber and
saliva made them stiff. They cracked and flaked like tree bark when
he moved. His ground was lit and heated by two soapstone lamps, yet
as the door had been open for several hours, it was as cold outside
as within. Frost crystals glistened on the caribou skin-covered walls
and floor.