A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2) (7 page)

“But—”

“But what? No one can say for certain who sent the hammer into Spynie Orrl’s brain? ’Tis said in the Orrlhouse that the Scarpe hammerman Mansal Stygo did the killing, and that the marks of Mansal’s hammer were stamped on Spynie’s skull.” Raina made to speak, but Merritt forestalled her again. “And it is also said that a burned-out campfire was found east of where the bodies lay, and amidst the campfire’s ashes lay tokens of Blackhail and Scarpe.”

“Stone Gods.” Raina touched the horn of powdered guidestone at her waist. She wanted to deny it, but it sounded like the truth. Orrlsmen were not given to wild stories and swift conclusions. They were stoic men, preferring to save their energies for hunting, not loose talk.

“None of this looks good, Raina. Orrl against Blackhail. War on more war.” Merritt Ganlow’s ice-green eyes studied her. “Best be gone now. Keep the shawl about you. It’s cold in this roundhouse . . . and days darker than night lie ahead.”

Tiny hairs on Raina’s arms lifted. Merritt’s words were old and she did not know where they came from, but they stirred something within her. Unnerved, she turned to go.

Merritt caught her wrist. “You are welcome at this hearth, Raina Blackhail. Remember that when you return to your world of husbands and wives.”

Raina nodded. She could not speak to thank her.

The journey down through the roundhouse was long and tiring, and she found herself making stops along the way. She saw the casual glances from charwomen and alewives differently now. Were they watching her for him?

Lost in thought, she almost missed the broad and misshapen form of Corbie Meese, crossing the entrance hall with enough firewood strapped to his back to build or burn a house.

“Corbie.”

The soft word made the hammerman turn. A frown had started upon his face, but upon seeing Raina he grinned. “Are ye mad, woman? To halt a man whilst he’s toting a ton of logs?” Bending his back as he spoke, he resettled the load. Leather straps whitened with the strain.

Raina grinned back at him. “That old load? Why, there’s more air in there than wood.”

Corbie laughed. “By the Stones, woman! You’d drive a man hard if ye could.”

Now he had Raina laughing along with him, and it felt good.
Good.
It was suddenly difficult to talk of other things. “Corbie. Can I ask something of you?”

“Aye. If I can ask something of you.”

“You can.”

Serious now, the hammerman put a hand against the stair-wall to brace the weight of his load. The great dint in his head where a training hammer had clipped him as a boy showed up starkly in the torchlight. “It’s Sarolyn. She’s near her time now ... and ...” His gaze dropped to his feet.

Raina nodded quickly, knowing full well what he meant to say and knowing also that mannish reticence kept him from it. “I’ll watch her day and night, Corbie. And both me and Anwyn will be there during her confinement.”

Relief showed itself plainly on Corbie’s face. “I thank you for that, Raina Blackhail. It does a man’s heart good to know that his wife will be well cared for whilst he’s riding far from home.”

Such a good man. He does not speak of his own death, but the thought is there inside him.

“Name what ye would have of me.”

She met the gaze from Corbie’s light brown eyes, feeling as if she had trapped him. “It’s said that only a dozen hammermen in the North are capable of the blow that killed Spynie Orrl. Is Mansal Stygo one of them?”

Corbie’s whole body stiffened at the question. To ask a hammerman to speak against a fellow hammerman, even one from a foreign clan, was calling for blood. There was a close honor amongst them. Hammer and ax had been wielded in the clanholds before the first sword-blade was forged, before even there was metal, just stone and wood and bone. And neither Corbie nor Raina could pretend this was a casual question about a man’s skill.

The chief’s wife asked much of the hammerman, but the hammerman had given his word and he was bound by honor to answer her . . . even though he knew he named a murderer as he spoke. “Mansal trained for a season with the Griefbringer, here in this house.”

Naznarri Drac. The Griefbringer. Exiled from the Far South, granted asylum by Ewan Blackhail, victor of Middlegorge, trainer of Corbie Meese. Six years dead now, the last man he’d trained was Bullhammer, the strongest hammerman in the North.

Knowing she had her answer, Raina bowed her head.

Corbie watched Raina for a moment, then shouldered his burden of quartered logs, turned and walked away.

Raina stared at the great slate tiles that formed the entrance-hall floor, letting the knowledge settle inside her. Two meetings, both good and bad. Would that somehow she could avoid the third. There was nothing for it, though. Mace Blackhail had summoned her and she would be a fool to defy him. Gathering Merritt’s cloak about her, she made for the Hail chief’s chamber.

The crooked stairway was narrow and poorly lit. Once Raina had rushed down the steps, eager to be with Dagro to talk about her day. Now she moved slowly, noticing the mold on the walls and the defensive capstones overhead. Too soon she was there. The tar coating the chief’s door seemed to ooze from the wood in the torchlight, and she did not want to put a hand upon it. Mace saved her the trouble by pushing from the other side.

“Wife,” he greeted her, a smile flashing oddly upon his face. “I had expected you sooner.”

He did not make way to let her enter and she was forced to reply while standing at the door like a child. “Did the girl not tell you I had business elsewhere?”

“She was sent to fetch
you
, not your excuses.”

“Then that’s her failing, not mine.”

Almost she thought that he would hit her. The anger was there in his eyes, but it shifted as quickly as it was born, leaving nothing but the hardness around his mouth. Turning, he bade her enter with a crook of his wrist.

She watched him move. The leathers he wore were as fluid as cloth and they curved to his spine as he walked. Wolves’ eyeteeth had been mounted around the hem of his greatcloak to weight it, and the fist-size brooch that held it to his throat was fashioned as a wolf pup, carved and silvered and packed with lead. Coming to stand behind the block of sandstone known as the Chief’s Cairn, he bade her seal the door.

Even now, after fourteen weeks of marriage, she feared to be alone with him. But she could not let him know that so she closed the door and drew the bolt.

“I see you have discovered one of my schemes.” He nodded toward her left hand. “I take it you approve?”

Feeling like a fool, Raina glanced down at her hand.
The badge.
She had not realized she had brought it with her. Feigning casualness, she tossed it onto the Chief’s Cairn. “A pretty plan.”

Mace’s strong, blade-bitten fingers closed around the badge. “I thought so.” He observed her coolly, and she knew he had seen through her bluff.

She spoke to dampen the gleam of knowing in his yellow-black eyes. “So, what would you have of me?”

“A wife.”

His words seemed to stop the air itself. Dust and heat and lamp smoke ceased rising. Mace’s gaze held hers, and for the first time since he had returned from the badlands she saw the man behind the wolf.

“You were a partner to Dagro,” he murmured, reaching for her hand. “Be one to me.”

Raina closed her eyes.
Sweet gods, how can he say this to me? Does he not remember what happened in the Oldwood?
Yet she saw in his eyes that he did, and that, given a chance, he would speak soft words to reverse it.
I was desperate, I acted rashly, I thought you wanted it too.
She shuddered, unable to find her voice.

Mace watched her closely. Minutes passed as he held her hand. And then, at last, he released it. “I have my answer, then.”

She drew in breath. There was no anger in her, just sickness. She thought that she might faint. “I’ve done my duty by you.”

A hard sound issued from his throat, and suddenly he was beside her, his hands on the small of her back. “Do you think I am grateful for your
duties
?” Sliding his fingers across her breast he turned the word into something obscene. “Don’t flatter yourself, Raina. There’s more warmth to be had in the heart of the Want than in your bed.” Abruptly, he let her go. “Have no fear, I shall make no call upon your
duty
again.”

Blood burned in her cheeks. She turned to leave.

But he had not done with her. Returning to his place behind the Chief’s Cairn, he said, “We have matters yet to discuss.”

She kept moving toward the door. “Such as?”

“Such as what’s to be done with the Sevrance girl. All who saw her that night by the dog cotes swear she’s witched.”

He knew he had her. She had to turn and face him.

Casually, Mace rested his hand upon the Clansword that was pegged low upon the wall. Wielded by Murdo Blackhail and Mad Gregor before him, forged from the crown of the Dhoone Kings, and symbol of Blackhail power, the unsheathed sword shone blackly in the torchlight.

“I’ve protected the girl as best I can, but tempers show little sign of cooling. You know how superstitious the old clansmen are. Turby Flapp would see her stoned. Gat Murdock thinks she should walk the coals. All seek her gone.” Mace shrugged. “I cannot set aside the will of the clan.”

You bring Scarpemen into this house
, she wanted to say.
No Hailsman wills that.
She said, “Not all in the clan condemn her. Orwin says the Moss woman deserved what she got, and that his dogs attacked her of their own free will.”

“It’s hardly surprising that Orwin defends the girl. All know he does so out of love and loyalty for Drey.”

Raina felt the net closing. He was too clever, this husband of hers; she didn’t have the words to best him. Still, she could not let Effie go undefended. “Cutty Moss was trying to kill her. No one can deny that. You’ve seen her wounds.”

Mace sighed. “Yes, but there are those who whisper that Cutty only sought to bring an end to her witching.”

“He stole her lore.”

“And look what she did to get it back.” Mace shook his head sadly. “Come now, Raina, don’t let your love for the girl blind you. Even if she didn’t witch those dogs into attacking the luntwoman and her son, most
believe
she did. I would change that if I could, but I’m chief, not shaman. And as chief it is my duty to becalm the clan.”

He wanted Effie harmed, she could hear it in the softness of his voice. Effie knew what he had done in the Oldwood . . . and possibly more. There was no telling what the girl could learn through her lore.

Mace spread his fingers wide across the pocked surface of the Chief’s Cairn. “She must be tried.”

Raina held herself still. She knew how such trials had ways of getting out of hand, how supposedly sane and rational clansmen could flash to anger in an instant, stoked by nothing more than their own ignorance and fears. Effie Sevrance, with her watching eyes and silent ways, wouldn’t have a hope against them. Delay, that was the only thing to be done now. Delay.

“It would be wise to save your decision until her brother returns from Gnash. Drey would not thank you for trying his sister in haste.”

She saw she had made him think. Drey Sevrance was a chief’s man. When the Ganmiddich roundhouse needed to be held for the returning Crab chief, Mace had chosen Drey to watch its high green walls. And when the Dhoone chief-in-exile had called the Hail Wolf to a parley, it had been Drey whom Mace had sent in his stead. Indeed, Drey hadn’t set foot in the roundhouse for five weeks, and Raina found herself wondering if his absence wasn’t what Mace had wanted all along.

Mace said, “Wait, and I risk the possibility that clansmen will take matters into their own hands, and that’s something we both might regret.” He favored Raina with a husband’s smile. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

It was no answer, and they both knew it. He would see Effie harmed either by trial or delay. And that meant she was no longer safe in this roundhouse. Raina pulled Merritt Ganlow’s shawl about her. Suddenly she wanted very much to be gone.

“Be about your business,” he said, dismissing her. “And take comfort in the fact that I’ll be keeping Effie close.”

His voice was so soft and reassuring it barely sounded like a threat.

THREE

In the Tomb of the Dhoone Princes

T
he Tomb of the Dhoone Princes was located a hundred yards north of the Dhoonehouse, sunk to a depth of eighty feet. A single passageway, cut out of the hard blue sandstone that Dhoone was built on, connected the tomb to the great barrel-vaulted guidehouse where kings and princes had once lain in state. Vaylo Bludd walked that passageway now, his bulk heavy upon him, his sword sheathed in dogskin at his thigh.

He told himself he was old and jaded and hard to impress, yet he couldn’t help but marvel at the blue-gray light that shone upon him, filtered down through man-size blocks of cyanide quartz sunk deep into the earth. Only light the color of the Dhoone Kings’ eyes was allowed entry into their grave.

A nice fancy
, Vaylo thought. But it was probably just as well no one had ever thought to do such a thing for Bludd, for the Bludd chiefs were a hard-drinking, hard-fighting lot and their eyes always burned red. Vaylo grinned. Stone Gods! But the Bludd chiefs were ugly! No one would have raised fancy tombs for
them
, that was for sure. Old Gullit’s nose had been split so many times by brawling and hammer blows that it looked just like a burst plum . . . and as for Thrago before him—well, men said it wasn’t for nothing that he was known as the Horse Lord.

Vaylo’s smile faded as the corridor widened ahead of him and he entered the coldness of the vault. The same blue light that spotted the corridor lay soft upon the standing tombs of Dhoone. They lined the great circle of the vault wall, stone coffins the size of men, with the likenesses of kings carved deep upon them, each one raised upright, as if they bore living, standing flesh, not dust. It made Vaylo’s hair rise to see them. The clanholds had been settled for three thousand years and the Dhoone Kings had reigned for a third of that. One thousand years of kings, sealed within the silence of stone.