A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2) (6 page)

Raina’s mouth tightened as she closed the dyehouse door. She could find little sympathy for Scarpe.

Mace Blackhail’s birthclan was not her own. Yelma Scarpe, the Weasel chief, had brought the torching upon herself. She had unleashed her sharp little tongue upon Orrl, claiming land and strongwalls and hunting rights, and then, never short of clever talk and clever schemes, she had set the might of Blackhail upon them. Five warriors murdered in the frost-broken lands to the west, one the Orrl chief’s grandson; a dozen more Orrl warriors slain during a border skirmish when both Blackhail and Scarpe rode against them.

And then there was the killing of the Orrl chief himself.

Corbie Meese and his crew found the bodies, on the Old Dregg Trail, two days west of Dhoone. Eleven white-winter warriors and Spynie Orrl, their bodies clad in the strangely shifting cloth Orrl was known for, their heads forced so far down into their chest cavities that the scout who first came upon them thought the bodies beheaded. Corbie Meese knew the truth of it. Only a score of hammermen in the North, himself included, were capable of striking such a blow.

Shivering, Raina made her way toward the widow’s hearth that formed the uppermost chamber of the roundhouse.

No one knew who had ordered the Orrl chief’s slaying. Spynie and his men had been traveling a dangerous path between warring clans, and there were some who whispered that the Orrl chief had been returning from a secret parley with the Dog Lord at Dhoone. Raina set no store by that. She
knew
Spynie Orrl, had spent a summer at the Orrlhouse in her youth, and even though he had no liking for the Hail Wolf, he would not turn his back on his oath.

Old words and old loyalties ran deep here, in the westernmost reaches of the clanholds. Clans were older, the living was harder, and for a thousand winters the Hail chief had looked upon the Orrl chief as his man.

“Lady.”

Raina turned on the stair to see Lansa Tanner on the landing below. The young girl bobbed her head, setting golden curls dancing.

“The chief awaits you in his chamber.”

Raina could still see the blush on her cheeks.
Foolish child, to let a conversation with Mace impress her so.
“Tell my husband I will join him when my business with the widows is done.”

The girl waited for more, lips prettily parted, bars of light from the arrow slits slicing across her throat. No one dismissed a chief’s request out of hand; there had to be an apology or explanation. When none came the girl’s mouth closed and something less pretty happened to her face. Without another word she turned and descended the stair.

Oh gods. What is happening here?
Resting her weight against the sandstone wall, Raina watched the girl go. She had woven birth cloths for all the Tanner girls, washed their soiled linens and combed their tangled hair. How had Mace managed to steal their loyalty from her?

The sounds and smells of early morning followed Raina as she climbed the little stair to the widows’ hearth. The crackle of newly lit fires and the sizzle of ham upon them competed with the clangor from the forge. Once her mouth would have watered at the aroma of blackening fat, and her pace would have quickened to meet the day, but here and now she felt nothing but the hard sense of duty that had become her life.

She was chief’s wife, first woman of the clan, and Mace Blackhail could not take that from her.

The door to the widows’ hearth was old and deeply carved, the wood a silvery gray. The lightest touch of Raina’s hand was all it took to set the quarter-ton of rootwood in motion. The steady clack of looms greeted her as she stepped into the room.

Merritt Ganlow, Biddie Byce and Moira Lull were at their frames, weaving. Old Bessie Flapp, whose great dislike of her husband made her a widow by choosing if not fact, was carding raw wool with her liver-spotted hands. Others were at tables, sewing and embroidering, spinning, and stretching the warps. The light was good here, and all the heat generated by the countless hearths burning throughout the roundhouse rose through the timbers on its journey toward the roof. The ceiling was low and barrel-vaulted, the bloodwood stangs made bright by a wash of yellow ochre. As always upon entering the chamber, Raina’s gaze fell upon the hearthstone.

The Widows’ Wall, it was called, and the brown stain upon it was said to be Flora Blackhail’s blood. Wife to the Mole Chief, Mordrag Blackhail, Flora had gone mad with grief upon receiving word of her husband’s death. A messenger had arrived at the roundhouse in the dark of night, telling how Mordrag had been crushed by a collapsing cave wall in the Iron Caves to the south. Frantic and inconsolable, Flora had fled to the uppermost chamber of the roundhouse and stabbed herself with her carding shears.

Stupid woman
, Raina thought. For the messenger who brought word was a stranger to the clan, and Mordrag still lived, though he had lost half a leg to gangrene. When news of his wife’s death reached him, Mordrag mourned for thirty days, and then took himself a new bride. And the chamber in which Flora had died became a home for the widows of the clan.

“Raina!” Merritt Ganlow spoke from behind her loom, her hands never losing contact with shuttle and thread. “Are you here as widow or wife?”

Raina nodded at the stout woolwife. “I’m here as friend, I hope.”

Merritt grunted. “Then as a friend I trust no words will find their way back to the Wolf.”

The widows had little love for Mace Blackhail. No Scarpewoman ever found her way to the Widows’ Wall, though there were plenty of widows amongst them. They knew they were not welcome, could see that their tattooed widows’ weals set them apart. Scarpe widows did not cut themselves, as Blackhail widows did, claiming the pain of loss was enough. Why should they cut their flesh and pain themselves more?

Pushing back her sleeves so the raised skin around her wrists showed, Raina said, “You and I both lost husbands in the badlands, Merritt Ganlow. Would that their deaths had generated kinship, not distrust.”

“You found yourself a new husband quick enough.”

Other women looked up at Merritt’s words and nodded. Someone at the back whispered, “
Quick as a bitch in heat.
”

Oh Dagro. Why did you leave me alone to bear this?
Steeling herself against emotion, Raina said, “Life goes on, Merritt, and the clan needs strong women to guide it. Perhaps your place is here, with the widows weaving cloth, but mine is not. I have been too long at the fore of things to retire to a life of wool and stitching. Losing a husband does not change who I am. And it’s not within me to claim the widow’s privilege of sitting near the fire and growing old.”

The shuttle in Merritt’s hand slowed. “Aye, you always were a hard one, Raina Blackhail.”

“Hardness in a man is called strength.”

“Aye, and
strength
, as you would have it, isn’t solely the preserve of those who lead. There’s strength to be found here, in the act of weaving quietly and carrying on.”

“I know it, Merritt. That is why I have come.”

For the first time since she had entered the widows’ hearth, Raina felt a lessening of the tension. Slender and lovely Moira Lull cleared the space beside Merritt on the bench. The women at the back returned to their tasks as Merritt took both hands from her loom and turned to face Raina full on. “You’re looking thin,” she said.

Raina sat. “Food is scarce.”

“Not for a chief’s wife.”

“I’m busy.” Raina shrugged. “There’s little time to stop and eat.”

“Anwyn says you’re wearing yourself out.”

“Anwyn should look to herself.”

That
got a smile from Merritt. No one worked harder or longer than Anwyn Bird. When the grand matron of the roundhouse wasn’t cooking or butchering, she was down in the armory, tilling bows.

Merritt pushed a flagon of sheep’s-milk ale Raina’s way. “So, what brings you here this early?”

Raina drank from the jug, savoring the milky coolness and the bite of malt liquor buried deep beneath the cream. As she wiped the froth from her lips, she wondered how best to approach this. Guile failed her so she came straight to the point. “You have kin at the Orrlhouse?” Merritt’s nod was guarded. “And your son travels back and forth, trading skins and winter meat?”

“Only Orrlsmen can bring home fresh meat from a deep-winter hunt.”

“Aye.” There wasn’t a Hailsman in the roundhouse who wasn’t in awe of Orrl’s white-winter hunters. No one could track game across snow and ice like the men of Orrl. “So your son must have knowledge of what’s happening at the Orrlhouse?”

This time Merritt’s nod was slow in coming. Her clever hands tied off a length of thread. “What’s it to you what my son knows, Raina Blackhail? Don’t you learn enough of Orrl’s business abed with your husband at night?”

Careful
, Raina cautioned herself.
Think what Dagro would have done here.
“I learn only what Mace chooses to tell me.”

Merritt sucked air between her teeth. “So you come here seeking what he will not?”

“I come here seeking the truth.” Raina met and held Merritt’s gaze. “We go back a long time, you and I. You and Meth danced swords at my first wedding, and when Dagro went hunting that last time it was Meth who shared his tent. I might be married to Mace Blackhail but my loyalty lies with this clan. You might think I gained much upon marrying him, but you cannot know all I have lost. What I’m asking for is information when you have it. I know the steadfastness of this hearth. None here will go running to my husband with tales of his wife’s deeds.”

“He watches you.” Ancient turkey-necked Bessie Flapp did not look up from her carding as she spoke. Skeletal fingers combed and stretched, combed and stretched, as a chill crept upon Raina. “Eyes everywhere. Little mice and little telltales. Meetings by the dog cotes and the stoke holes. Squeak, squeak, squeak. Who goes where? Who does what? Little mice with weasels’ tails.”

Raina took a breath. She had not known it was as bad as this.

“Biddie. Fetch Raina some of the griddle cakes from the hearth. And bring honey to sweeten the ale.” There was mothering in Merritt’s voice and Raina wondered what was showing on her face to change the woolwife so.

Biddie Byce’s long blond braids whipped the air as she went about Merritt’s bidding. She was too young to be a widow, barely nineteen winters old. Cull had wed her the spring before he was slain on Bannen field. Now Cull’s twin, Arlec, had begun to pay her court in small and unassuming ways. After the taking of Ganmiddich he had returned home with a necklace strung with green marble beads. Shyly, he had pressed it into Raina’s hands. “See Biddie gets it. She need not know it’s from me.”

Raina smiled as Biddie returned with cakes and honey. She didn’t want the girl to see the envy stabbing softly in her chest.

“Here. Pull this round you. Your skin’s as blue as Dhoone.” Merritt arranged a fine wool shawl across Raina’s shoulders, pulling it here and there until it covered all the bare skin. “Hatty. Bring one of the pieces you and your sisters are working on—Raina needs to see it.”

Silent and big-boned Hatty Hare snapped a thread with her teeth. Slowly she rose from her embroiderer’s stool to place a fist-sized panel in Raina’s hand.

The Hail Wolf, worked in silver against a black ground. The Blackhail badge; only no clansman since Ayan Blackhail had worn it.

“All the needlewomen have been set to work on them, under order of the chief himself.” Merritt poured honey into the milk ale. “We were warned to sew in silence and let none but the silversmiths know it, as they’re needed to stretch the wire.”

Raina’s fingers traced the line of the wolf’s jaw, expertly worked in silver wire so fine it moved as if it were thread. Almost she knew Merritt’s next words before she spoke them, for it took a fool not to see what this meant.

“This is how he keeps them loyal, this man whom it pleases you to call husband. He gives our clansmen back their pride. Five hundred years ago in the Tomb of the Dhoone Princes, all the chiefs in the clanholds met to strip Blackhail of its badge.
Ayan Blackhail slew a king
, they said.
A coward’s shot to the throat.
No Hail chief has challenged that judgment since; not Ornfel, or Mordrag, or Uthan . . . not even Dagro himself. Yet along comes a Scarpe-born fosterling, winning wars and gaining territory, daring to wear the Hail Wolf at his breast. And that’s not all. He wants every warrior in the clan to wear it; a whole army of Hailsmen bearing their badges with pride.

“He’s a subtle man, Mace Blackhail, I’ll give him that. And he knows the value of small things. For five hundred years our warriors have ridden into battle without badge or banner. We are women, and we cannot know the shame they endured.”

Raina hung her head. She felt Mace’s cunning as a weight upon her. Was there nothing he could not arrange? A chiefship. Loyalty.

Marriage.

Do not think of it
, a hard voice inside her warned.
Put the day in the Oldwood behind you. Hate is all it will bring, and hate is like acid; it only burns the vessel that holds it
. Raina raised her head. She would not be burned.

“I’ll be on my way now, but I thank you for your straight words. I’d like to visit you from time to time, to talk and exchange news.” She waited for Merritt to nod before standing. “It’s good to find a hearth free of my husband’s sway.”

“Squeak, squeak, squeak,” croaked Bessie Flapp. “Little mice with weasels’ tails.”

Merritt frowned at the old battleax. “Come.” She beckoned Raina. “I’ll walk with you to the stair.” When they were out of earshot, she said, “What is it you sought to know about Orrl?”

“Who is chief now? How are they coping with our hostilities?”

“Stallis stood Chief Watch ten days since. By all accounts he’s a sharp one, Spynie’s sixth grandson, the white-winter warrior with the most kills.”

“Does he hold Blackhail in favor?”

Merritt made an odd sound, almost a laugh. “Come now, Raina. Do you honestly think Stallis will forgive Mace for ordering his grandfather’s slaying?”