A Cavern of Black Ice (42 page)

"Here. Drink this."

Raif looked up. Angus Lok was holding
out his flask. Raif shook his head. How long had it been since he'd
torn back his hood? Surely only a moment? Yet Angus had had enough
time to find and uncork his flask.

Shrugging off Raif's refusal, Angus
took a swig from the flask himself. Smiling fondly at the flask as he
corked it, he said, "We'll rest a bit once we're under cover of
the trees. Feed the horses. The snow in the forest should be light
enough for us to make a fair pace before dark."

This time Raif was grateful for the
change in subject. His heart was racing, and the taste of metal
leaked through his mouth like blood from a sliced gum. Although he
didn't much feel like it, he forced himself to speak. "Will we
travel north through the taiga until we reach Black Spill?"

Angus shook his head. "No. We'll
head north a bit, then east. There's a few places I mean to visit
along the way."

"Stovehouses?"

"Aye. I have a habit of running
out of good liquor in the most inconvenient of places, so I never
miss the chance to top my load. Besides, the stovemaster's wife at
Duff's has a way with needle and thread. And Darra would have my
eyeballs for chewing curd if I passed that close and didn't bring her
back a length of cloth."

Raif nodded, but not lightly.
Stovehouses were the backbone of the clanholds. Any mud-and-hide
mound, felt-covered dugout, log cabin, or ancient barn could be named
one. All a stovehouse needed was a stove. Some of the larger ones
like Duff's were more like inns, with a stovemaster to keep the stove
lit day and night, cots to sleep on, hot food, warm ale, and stalls
to box the horses. Others were little more than deserted shacks,
their walls plugged with wax against the wind, their stoves cold, a
cord of logs stacked in the corner, and dried food packed high in the
rafters, out of reach of bears. All clansmen traveling from one
clanhold to another used them. They were a basic necessity in a land
where storms could roll from the Great Want in less time than it took
to skin an elk.

Stovehouses were no-man's-land. Any man
or woman from any clan had right of refuge in every stovehouse in the
clanholds. Wars, border disputes, clan feuds, and hunting rivalries
were all set aside once a clansman stepped within shadow of a stove.

Stove laws were sacred in the
clanholds, and although many legendary fights and battles had taken
place in the woods and balds directly surrounding the great
Stovehouses, no one ever bared weapons inside. To do so would bring
shame and condemnation upon oneself and one's clan.

As he rode through the thick, powdery
snow, Raif worked out who he would be likely to meet at Duff's. His
mood darkened. Any number of clansmen could be there, hunting by day
in the winter game runs east of the taiga, warming themselves around
the great copper stove shaped like a brewer's vat at night.

And then there would be Bluddsmen.

Raif felt for his raven lore for the
first time that day, turning it in his hand like a game piece. He
didn't want to think about what would happen between Bluddsmen and
Hailsmen once news of the Bluddroad slaying leaked out. Stove laws
would be tested to breaking then.

"Have you got that bow of mine
braced and ready?" Angus called from ahead. "I'll be
expecting a pair of ice hares in payment for the lending. Fat ones,
mind. Not some skinny albino rats."

Raif looked over Angus' shoulder to the
black wedge of forest they were about to enter. By turns scattered,
dense, fire leveled, and wind stunted, the taiga stretched for
hundreds of leagues south and west of the clanhold. A stand of old,
perfectly straight black spruce formed the forest's north wall, and
Raif was aware of light and wind levels dropping as he approached. It
was like entering a building. The snow underfoot became firmer and
more shallow with each step. Noises fell away. Overhead, the limbs of
the spruces created a ceiling of nursed snow.

Raif swallowed as he took the bow from
its case. He couldn't get the taste of metal out of his mouth.

Angus slowed the pace. After a few
minutes he looked over his shoulder. "What say we stop and
nosebag the horses?"

Raif shook his head. He didn't want to
stop. Already he was searching for game. It was
a
reflex
action of all clansmen upon entering the taiga, but none more so than
those who chose the bow as their first weapon. Even as he hated
himself for it, part of him welcomed the relief. Hunting meant not
having to think.

Time passed. Angus was silent, his hood
pulled close to his face. The taiga deepened, revealing narrow
corridors leading to frozen ponds, standing stones ringed with
crowberries, and clearings bedded with icegrass and touch-me-nots.
The smell of pitch settled in Raif's clothing like dust as he watched
the ground for game.

A ptarmigan, fat as a loaf of bread,
flew up through the spruces, dislodging snow as its wings clipped
pine needles. Raif drew his bow, sighted the bird, then
called
it to him. Blood warmth flooded his mouth. The rapid beat of the
ptarmigan's heart pulsed like a vein in his cheek. The bird was
young, strong, its belly full of crowberries and soft willow leaves.
Raif breathed once on the bowstring to warm it and then let the arrow
fly.

A soft
thuc
sounded, then the
arrow hit the ptarmigan with such force, it knocked the bird from the
sky. Raif didn't have to see the body to know that the arrowhead had
found its heart.

"A pretty shot," Angus said.

Raif glanced down. His uncle was
watching him intently, his eyes the color of old wood.

After a moment Angus turned his horse.
"Wait here. I'll fetch the bird."

Spitting to clean his mouth, Raif
watched his uncle slip through the trees. Absently he ran a hand over
the bow. Made of a combination of wood and horn, and tilled so
smoothly that it was like touching glass, the bow was unlike any
other he had held before. Silver and midnight blue markings had been
stamped deep into the riser, but Raif couldn't work out how.

By the time Angus returned with the
ptarmigan, Raif had shot two hares. The first he saw clearly as it
ran from the path of Angus' bay. The second was crouched in a head of
sagebrush, and Raif told himself he had seen it
before
he
released the string.

"We'll eat well tonight,"
Angus said, pulling the shafts from the hares and bagging them along
with the bird. "I can see it's going to be useful having you
along, Raif Sevrance."

Raif waited for his uncle to bring up
the fact that all three creatures had been heart-killed, yet his
uncle said nothing, merely busied himself with cleaning the arrow
shafts before the blood froze.

They fastened feedbags on the horses
and rode until dark.

Angus led them to a deserted stovehouse
that Raif thought only clansmen knew of. Dug out of sandstone and
clay, the stovehouse was little more than a hole in the ground.
Hidden in the center of an island of stone pines, the entrance was
covered by a slab of slate as big as a wagon wheel. Raif worked to
clear the moss and rootwood from around the edges as Angus took his
pickax to a nearby spawning pond and broke out some freshwater ice.

Raif worked himself hard, pushing aside
the entrance slab by himself rather than waiting for Angus to lend a
hand. When that was done, his muscles were aching and his inner
woolens were soaked with sweat. It wasn't enough. Taking the hand ax
from his pack, he went to cut wood.

Angus found him an hour later, his
gloves and oilskin glued with sap, pine needles stuck to his sleeves,
veins in his chopping hand open and bleeding, and the yellow bruises
of imminent frostbite coloring his skin. A pile of logs, cut almost
to splinters, was heaped at his back.

"You've done enough now, lad,"
Angus said, taking the ax from him and guiding him away. "Come
wi' your old uncle. The stove's glowing like a warm heart, and
there's good food upon it, and you may not have your clan this night,
but you and I are kin."

Raif let himself be led to the
stovehouse.

Angus had done a good job of turning
the clay-walled hollow into a place filled with warmth and light. A
damp cloth was steaming against the belly of the brass stove, and
Angus took it and wrapped Raif's hands closely to stop chilblains
from forming. Next he bit the cork from the rabbit flask that had
been cooling in a pot of snow. "Drink," he said, and Raif
did. The alcohol was so cold it
burned
.

The stovehouse was tiny and low
ceilinged. Pine roots had broken through the walls in some
places, jutting out like bones from a rain-worn grave. Raif sat on
the ground in front of the stove and ate and drank what Angus gave
him. The skin on the roast hares was black, and it crackled as it
broke, releasing hot juices and scalding steam. The ptarmigan meat
was rich and fatty. Angus had stuffed it with wild sage and roasted
it in its feathers.

There was a lot of smoke. The smoke
hole was open, but the stove was old and warped, and fumes and soot
leaked from the stack.

Raif felt numb. He couldn't remember
the last time he'd rested or slept.

"That bird was a beauty,"
Angus said, sucking on a wing bone. "Daresay it would have been
better for a plucking, but for the life of me I hate pulling
feathers." He watched Raif through the smoke, his large keen
face now cleared of its protective oils. Setting aside his dish of
bones, he said, "When you shot the bird, did you taste or smell
anything?"

Raif shook his head. "Nothing
coppery, like blood or metal?"

"No," Raif lied. "Why do
you ask?"

Angus shrugged. "Because that's
what happens when a man draws upon the old skills."

"Old skills?"

"Sorcery, some would call it. I've
never cared for the word myself. Frightens people." A quick
glance at Raif. "Better to use the Sull name:
rhaer'san
,
the old skills."

Hair on Raif'sarms lifted at the
mention of the Sull. The Sull were seldom named out loud. The
Trenchlanders, who lived on Sull lands and were part Sull and who
traded fur and lumber with the clanholds, were different. Clansmen
often took their names in vain. But the Sull… no clansman ever
dealt with the Sull. The great warriors of the Racklands, with their
silver letting knives, pale steel, recurve bows, and proudlocks,
wasted neither breath nor time on clan. Raif tried to keep his voice
light. "What are the signs that a man is using the old skills?"

"Well, as I said, the one who
draws it often tastes and smells metal. He'll weaken, too. His vision
can blur, his stomach cramp, and often he'll get pains in his head.
It all depends upon the level of power drawn. I saw a man fall from
his horse once, just plain keeled over into I the mud. It was a full
week before he could stand on his own two feet. Drew too much, you
see, tried to do something he had neither the power nor the skill
for. Nearly killed him."

Raif felt his cheeks burn. He had come
close to falling from his horse after he had heart-killed the Bludd
spearman.

"There was a time when those who
could draw upon the old skills were valued, when mortar binding the
Mountain Cities was white as snow, and the clanholds had kings
instead of chiefs. Indeed, you'll find some who'll tell you that the
masons who built Spire Vanis owed as much to the old skills as they
did to their chisels and lathes. A few will even swear that Founding
Quarterlords had more than a few drops of old blood running in their
veins."

"Old blood?"

Angus' eyes shifted color. "It's
just a term. Old blood. Old skills. The two are one and the same."

It was an evasion, and Raif guessed
Angus would work quickly to cover it. He was right.

"Course in those days, it wasn't
unheard of for clansmen to draw upon the old skills. Small things:
healing and foretelling and the like. It wasn't until Hoggie Dhoone's
time that the clanholds turned their backs on sorcery."

"No clansman worth his lore would
take part in anything unnatural."

"Is that so?" Angus scratched
his chin. "And how do you suppose a clansman
gets
his
lore? Chance? Fate? Or does the guide pluck straws from a hat?"

"He dreams."

"Aah. That's it. He dreams.
Nothing unnatural
there
, that's for sure." Angus tilted
his head one way and the other, making a great show of thinking. "And
then there's the guidestone itself… I suppose each clansman
carries its powder with him at all times so he's never caught short
of a spot of mortar. Must come in mighty useful those times when
you're out ranging and you see a poorly built wall. A few cups of
water, some fire ash, and a handful of powdered guidestone, and
you'll have it repointed in no time."

Raif glowered at his uncle. "We
carry our guidestone with us because it's Heart of Clan. It's what
we've always done."

Surprisingly, Angus nodded. "Aye,
lad, you're right. It was wrong of me to bait you. Can't help
myself sometimes—I'm wicked like that. If Darra were here,
she'd have me out packing snow by now." Standing, he fed the
ptarmigan bones to the stove.

Raif watched the flames shiver through
the smoke hole. His cheek and fingers were throbbing where they had
taken the frost, and a deep weariness stole over his body like rising
water. He was annoyed at Angus but too tired to make anything of it.
"Does anyone use the old skills today?"

Angus did not stop tending the stove,
but something in his body changed as Raif spoke. Shrugging to the
flames, he said, "Some. A few."

"In the cityholds?"

"Aye, perhaps. But it's frowned on
there, just as it is in the clans. The cities have their One God, and
he's a jealous one at that. Any powers not of his making have long
been forced into the shadows, their time nearly past. Hoggie Dhoone
recognized that a thousand years ago, when he drove all who used the
old skills from the clanholds. The One God has long arms. He lives
within the Mountain Cities, but make no mistake: His reach extends to
the clans."