A Sword From Red Ice (32 page)

Feeling the boat pull strongly toward the right,
she glanced over her shoulder at Waker's father. His face told her
nothing, but she could see from his strokes that he was guiding the
boat ashore. Wondering why they were stopping so early Effie scanned
ahead. Smoke lines, three of them, rose above the tree canopy in the
distance. Effie wondered what roundhouse or settlement they came
from. A handful of tiny ancient clanholds lay along the river between
Ganmiddich and Croser. The country was wild here, thickly forested
and overrun with vines. It was known as "tree country" and
Inigar Stoop always said it was nothing more than a hatchery for
flies and a feeding ground for bears. Effie took it to mean he
disapproved of the wild clans that lived here.

When she saw Waker set down his paddle and draw
out the pole from its place in the hull of the boat, Effie realized
they weren't going ashore after all. They were going to pole up a
creek.

Even though she looked really hard she couldn't
spot the tributary until they were right on top of it. She could feel
its waters, pushing against the stern of the boat, even perceive the
cross eddies swirling where the two channels met, yet could see
nothing but choked-up willow and sumac ahead. Anyone looking on would
have thought Waker and his father were about to pole right onto the
shore. But no, at the last instant Effie spied a telling shadow
beneath the trees. Crouching low and tucking their heads against
their chests to avoid being hit by branches, Waker and his father
steered the boat through the canopy and into the creek.

A pretty nifty move, Effie thought, slapping at a
willow twig that was aiming right for her eye.

The creek was narrow and winding, a line of brown
water leading through the trees. Waker's breath came harder as he
poled against the quick-moving current. Effie kept herself still. The
boat was rolling from side to side and she didn't like it one bit.

Girlie, girlie, girlie, girlie. Wonder why it
wasn't early? For some reason Waker's father's stupid rhyme kept
playing in her head.

They headed upstream until the light failed, and
then Waker's father guided the boat to a narrow pebble beach
surrounded by black oak and hemlock. It was nearly dark by the time
Effie stepped into the water. Her legs were a bit numb so she didn't
feel the cold much. The memory was back again, playing hide-and-seek
in her head.

"Girl, gather sticks for the fire."
Waker held the boat for his father to alight and then began to unpack
the load.

Effie's feet were still in the water. The bottom
of her dress was wet. She was shivering and all she wanted to do was
wrap herself up in a blanket and sleep. "I have a name, you
know," she said to Waker. "It's Effie Sevrance. And that
over there is Chedd Limehouse."

Chedd, hearing his name mentioned, looked up from
his task of laying bedrolls, saw Effie facing off against Waker Stone
and decided to make himself disappear. "Off for a piss," he
said to no one in particular, darting into the trees.

Waker had been in the process of unloading the
waxed sack containing the food. Gaze staying on Effie he walked to
the shore and deposited the sack on the beach. It landed with a
crunch. "Your name won't mean nothing where you're going. So
drop your proud little fancies and build the fire."

Effie felt heat rise to her cheeks. Waker's father
passed her in the water, his malignant ferret face twitching. Effie
waited for him to walk up the beach before addressing his son. "Are
you selling us to the mine lords of Trance Vor?" There. She'd
spit it out.

Waker Stone's eyes bulged a fraction farther from
his skull. His head went back and a high braying noise exploded from
his lips.

Effie stepped back. The noise continued and she
realized quite suddenly that he was laughing. Behind her, Waker's
father sniggered once in solidarity and then went quiet.

After a moment Waker calmed himself and looked her
straight in the eye. "Girl, I promise you you're not going to no
mine."

She waited but he said no more, simply picked up
the sack and went about his business on the beach. As Effie watched
him the memory she'd been grasping for all day rolled into place.
Automatically, her hand reached for out for her lore. Girlie, girlie,
girlie, girlie. Wonder why it wasn't early? Of course! Her lore
hadn't warned her the night of the kidnapping. Her lore always
alerted her to danger. Always. But not then. So why? It was a
question she tried to answer as she gathered sticks for the fire.

Stormglass

Raif dreamed he was awake and could not sleep.
When he woke he lay on his bed, eyes closed, and rested. Today he
would leave the Want.

Or try to.

Light angling through the clarified hide walls
filtered into his mind's eye. Silvery rings floated across his
vision. It was peaceful just to watch them for a while. Soon he found
it was one of those rare times when he could picture Drey, Effie and
Ash without feeling the pain of losing them. No hurt, no longing,
just memories of their faces. Effie grinned, showing him a great big
hole where her front baby teeth used to be. Drey was still, offering
himself for inspection, his large brown eyes vigilant and unblinking.
Ash was still also, but unlike his brother and sister, Raif could not
see her clearly. Wind was moving through her long silvery hair and
she smiled gently as her image faded.

Raif rose and dressed, scrubbed his teeth with
pumice, drank a full pitcher of water, combed and rebraided his hair,
shaved. Forming a pile of his possessions in the middle of the tent,
he carefully inspected his weapons, waterskin, gear belt, the Orrl
cloak and half a dozen other lesser things. Those items requiring
care he carried outside.

Diffused sunlight shone across the dunes. A net of
high clouds drifted overhead, and at ground level the wind was mild
and halting. A lamb brother just beyond the tent circle was skinning
a large carcass, rolling back the hide with one hand as he pared the
pink, fatty flesh. With a shock, Raif realized they had slain the
dead brother's mule.

He crossed to the fire. Three prayer mats were
laid out side by side upwind of the smoke. Raif settled his
possessions in the pumice and went to look at them. They were simply
woven, made from dyed and polished wool. The background of the
closest rug was the same deep brown as the lamb brothers' robes, and
only two other colors had been used to weave the design: warm amber
and silvery yellow. Raif recognized the buffalo and lambs from
Tallal's story. The animals were lined up along the top border, as if
ready to journey down the length of the rug. His gaze tracked the
design. Exotic trees and animals he could not name formed small
islands along the way. Suns picked out in the amber thread were shown
rising between the cleft of two hills and setting on a flat desert
plain. Resting atop the bottom border was a shining expanse of
silver, worked to look like water. No, ice, Raif corrected himself,
for some kind of bird stood atop it, pecking at the surface. The bird
was worked in the same brown as the background and its features were
hard to see. The only way to make them out was to study the overweave
created by thread being placed on top of thread. Hairs rose along
Raif's neck as he made out the shape of the bird's bill.

Briefly, he scanned the other two rugs. The
designs differed but the story remained the same: the lambs and
buffaloes on a journey toward the ice. He saw no more ravens and was
relieved.

Returning to his equipment he studied the sky. He
knew it was futile to judge time from the sun's position in the Want,
but he could not break the habit of eighteen years. The air was like
crystal today, revealing the landscape in sharp-cut lines and
crisply focusing light. The dunes had shifted while he slept and
things that had once been covered were now revealed. Rocks as round
as eggs, petrified tree limbs and a rack of antlers had emerged from
the pumice overnight. Raif wondered what had become of Farli's body.
Was there anything left for the dunes to cover? Did he want to go and
find out?

No, he did not. Squatting by the fire, he picked
up a birch pole and hooked the brass kettle that was resting on the
edge of the coals. There were no cups, so he did not drink, just let
his hands warm against the metal. When they were limber enough he set
to work. The tension in his bow needed correcting, so he restrung it.
Dry air had warped some of his arrows, so he whittled back the
shafts. Last night's extreme cold had cracked part of the finish on
the Orrl cloak, and Raif wondered if it could be fixed. As he ran his
fingers over the surface, little chips of pearlized varnish fell off.
Deciding he would need to consult with someone who knew about such
things, he set the cloak aside and began oiling his leather goods
instead. From time to time, out of the corner of his eye, he was
aware of the lamb brothers moving around the camp. One went to
consult with the man butchering the mule carcass, stayed for a while
and then left. Raif thought it was probably Tallal. Later the same
brother crossed to the corral and tended the ewe. It looked as if he
were washing her mouth and teeth. No one approached the fire.

After a while Raif stopped and ate. Gluey rolls
made of wheat and whey were warming in the cookpot. Curds of sheep's
cheese with chunks of dried apricot stuffed inside made them taste
both salty and sweet. The kettle was cooler now so he lifted it above
his head and poured the sharp, greenish tea into his mouth. The
movement sent a spasm of pain through his left shoulder.

When he was ready, Raif stood and made his way to
Tallal's tent. In the eleven days that he'd been here he had learned
many small things about the lamb brothers. One was the protocol for
entering another's tent. Bending, Raif scooped a handful of pumice
from the ground. With a light movement he threw the sand against the
tent wall.

"Come," came Tallal's voice after a
moment. It was telling that he had not spoken in his own tongue.

Raif entered the dim smokiness of the tent. Smudge
lamps suspended from longbones ringed the room at waist height,
giving off dull red light. Raif had not been in any other tent beside
his own, and the differences drew his eye. Lambskins overlapped
across the floor. The curve of a painted chest perfectly matched the
curve of the tent and sat snug against the wall. There was no
mattress, only a nest of thin yellow cushions piled around the
central support. Hanging from the ceiling by lengths of wool thread
were dozens of small leather pouches. Raif had to duck to avoid
knocking them with his head.

Tallal was kneeling on one of the lambskins. His
head was bare, the hood placed on a little bone stool by the door.
Surprised, Raif hesitated to move farther into the tent.

"Sit," bid Tallal. "Look."

Holding his chin high, he watched Raif look at
him. Proud, that was Raif's first thought. Tallal's black hair was
cropped close to his skull. His cheekbones were wide and prominent
and his brown lips were full. The three black dots above his nose
were repeated on his chin. Just as with Farli, Tallal was younger
than Raif had thought. Not young exactly, but far from old. Tallal's
deep dark eyes with their strangely bluish whites tracked every shift
in Raif's gaze. "Would you like to see my teeth?"

Raif thought Tallal might be gently mocking him,
but couldn't be sure. "No."

Tallal bowed hid head gravely. "Eat," he
said, indicating a silver platter no bigger than Raif's hand that was
neatly laid with spiced nuts.

Recognizing the formality of a long-practiced
custom, Raif slipped a nut into his mouth. It was sharp and salty,
like the sea. After he swallowed, he surprised himself by asking,
"Why did you butcher the mule?"

"Ten is an unlucky number for my people."

Raif thought back to his first conversation with
Tallal when the lamb brother told him there were eleven in the party.
His headcount had included the animals. So they were nine now.

"It is the number of the Dark One's
children," Tallal continued. "Whenever ten are gathered it
draws His eye."

But we are ten, Raif thought. Including me.

Tallal watched as the implications of his
statement finally dawned on Raif.

"You knew I would leave today?"

"We hoped."

Raif took a breath and held it. The smoke from the
lamps burned his throat. Of course they wanted him to go: they had
seen what he was.

"I'm sorry about your brother."

Tallal did not blink. "So are we."

Raif stood. Pouch things swung wildly around his
head.

"You cannot leave," Tallal said. "You
do not know how."

He was right.

Rising, the lamb brother removed his hood from the
stool and offered the seat to Raif.

He hadn't brushed against a single pouch, Raif
noticed, sitting. "What's in them?" he asked, jerking his
head toward the roof.

"Souls."

Raif closed his mouth, looked up at the plain
brown-and-tan pouches and then looked away.

Tallal smiled softly, with understanding. "This
lamb brother asks to be forgiven. He did not mean to surprise you.
The sacs are our way of keeping count. Each one represents a soul we
have reclaimed for God. When we return to our people they are opened
with great ceremony and the morah is released."

The pouches were the size of plums. "The
morah is in there?"

The lamb brother shrugged. "Some believe so.
This lamb brother thinks perhaps the flesh of God is too powerful and
impatient to be contained in such small things."

"When will you return?"

There was no shrug this time. Tallal's gaze
lengthened as he looked beyond the walls of the tent. "I think
perhaps not for a very long time." The lamb brother turned his
head a fraction and looked straight at Raif. Understanding passed
between them. "Sometimes a purpose must be a man's home."