A Sword From Red Ice (51 page)

Anwyn must have called in some favors, for she was
a woman who when presented with a pot of rouge would use it to grease
cow udders. The one thing she had in her corner was her total mastery
and control of the clan kitchen. The clan maids might turn up their
noses at mutton stew and boiled pork, but they'd hand over valuable
equipment for honeycakes, dried and sugared apricots and plum wine.
Raina sat on the corner of the bed and picked up a weapon at random.
It was a needle of bone with a flat end that felt like sand paper. A
buffer? Experimentally, Raina brushed it against her teeth. Dear
gods, either Anwyn had made a mistake and included a woodworking tool
amongst the trinkets or maids today had declared tooth enamel
outdated. Raina put it back in its place and picked up the hairbrush
instead. Her hair was tangled from lack of care so she rubbed a
little unction on the toothcombs. That was better. It even smelled
nice. By the time the waist-length, honey-colored locks were finally
combed out the ends were beginning to dry.

Still naked, she reached for the rouge, sniffed
it, tested it on the back of her hand, rejected it, then put some on
her cheeks anyway. And then rubbed it off. Crucial seconds passed as
she inspected herself in the mirror. No, she did not look like a city
bawd. Her face actually looked better with some color, as if she'd
been out riding or had an hour or two of sun.

Of course now that she saw herself she realized
Anwyn's point. Tonight everyone in the clan would be gathered to
watch the Hallowing of the new Hailstone. It was a ceremony you could
live entire lifetimes and never see. People would be excited and
expectant. It had to go well; the future of Blackhail depended upon
it. Many clansmen and women would participate in the Calling of the
Gods, but only one person would bear the Menhir Fire, and up until an
hour ago that person had been walking about the roundhouse as pale
and grubby as a cellar maid. Even if she did not honor the stone she
must honor her fellow clansmen: that was the catch of tonight.
Wisely, Anwyn had understood this and given Raina a gentle push in
the right direction.

Raina Blackhail, wife to two chief's, must welcome
the new Hailstone with reverence, properly groomed and attired.
Everyone in the clan had sons, fathers or brothers at war. She must
honor them. It was as simple as that. She must think of Blackhail,
not Stannig Beade and Scarpe, must imagine the wishes of her first
husband Dagro, not those of her second husband Mace.

Fanning her hair over her shoulders to encourage
it to dry Raina crossed to the cedar chest that she'd ordered brought
down from her old chambers. It contained cloaks, dresses, shawls,
smallclothes blouses, boots, stocking, skirts, heeled shoes and other
items of clothing. Dust rose as she pushed back the lid. The layers
were packed with dried wheat seeds, though she could not recall why.
The seeds created a snowfall of gold as she pulled out one dress
after another. It had been a long time since she'd cared about how
she looked. The old Raina—the one that existed before Dagro's
death and the rape in the Oldwood—had been young and carefree
and had not realized her own good luck. Raina felt tender toward her,
indulgent of her girlish taste in dresses. Periwinkle blue silk! Such
finery had probably cost Dagro an entire horse at the Dhoone Fair.

She would never again be the woman who wore this
dress to the Spring Lark and pretended not to notice clansmen's
admiring glances as she whirled around the dance floor. Such delight
had forever passed. Prettiness and the politics of attracting, yet
appearing to disdain, male attention seemed like child's play. The
blue silk would not do. She rummaged further, thrusting arm-deep into
the seeds. Finally she found it, right at the bottom keeping company
with dried-out spiders, a dress spun from finely woven mohair,
russet-colored, with a panel of silver tissue that peeked through a
split in the skirt.

"I know it's not to your taste, Ray. But
mayhap one day you'll grow into it." Raina heard Dagro's voice
as clearly as if he were speaking into her ear. He had gone to parley
with Threavish Cutler in Ille Glaive and spent the night in the Lake
Keep. At the feast he attended, he spotted a fine city lady wearing
a dress much the same as this. "She was dancing, and it flashed
silver when she moved and I thought to myself: Raina must have one.
It was the first time I'd ever looked at a dress and thought of
Blackhail." Raina swallowed. He was a man so he had got the
details wrong. A local seamstress had run it up for him, using the
fancy city fabrics he had brought her. Raina had never liked it and
worn it only once, when the ancient clan chief Spynie Orrl had come
to visit. It had seemed old to her and fuddy-duddy, though it fit
well enough around the bodice. Seven years later it seemed just
right. Stately and beautiful, heavy as a king's cloak. She pulled it
on and struggled for some time with the lacings. Her waist was the
same size but her breasts appeared to have gotten larger—had
she always worn her dresses this tight?

Her hair was close to dry by the time she'd donned
stockings and suede boots and a belt of silver chain, and she set
about pinning it back. No matronly, serviceable braids. Not tonight.
She would wear her hair in thick, loose hanks at her back, banded
with silk ribbon.

She felt strange by the time she was done, not
quite herself. The dress stiffened her spine, made her walk with her
chin up and chest out. As she lifted the latch of the little cell
beneath the kitchen that she now called her own, she realized her
fingernails were rough and chipped. That was what the bone thing was
for, she realized, smiling as she let herself out.

People fell silent as she made her way through the
kitchens. The women punching down dough for tonight's bake stopped
what they were doing and turned to look at her. The boy sweeping the
floor actually started sweeping his feet. Raina thought for a
moment, then halted close to the big center worktable where kitchen
girls were assaulting vegetables with wicked-looking knives. The heat
from the bread ovens was nearly unbearable.

"Everyone, " Raina said briskly. "Stop
work and prepare for the Hallowing. All will be expected to attend."

Clanswomen stared at her, blinking, their hands
either powdery with dough or wet with carrot and onion juices. "But
the ovens," said Sheela Cobbin, one of the bare-armed women
kneading the dough. "They're already fired and hot."

"Close them down," Raina said to her.
"There'll be no bake tonight." It was like using a muscle,
exercising power. The more you did it the easier it became. Everyone
obeyed her, setting down knives and mops and ladles, the dough women
throwing damp cloths over their balls of dough, the oven boys closing
the air holes with long metal hooks. "Borrie," she said to
the boy who had been sweeping his feet, "When everyone has left
I want you to stay behind and seal the kitchen door."

He understood exactly what she meant and nodded.
"I'll let myself out of the back."

"Good." She'd be damned if any Scarpe
would steal into this kitchen and sneak away with food from her clan
tonight. She was a little breathless by the time she made her way
into the entrance hall. Part of her was a bit worried about stepping
on Anwyn's toes, yet the clan matron was nowhere to be seen, and
ultimately Raina knew that her own authority must usurp that of her
old friend's. Do and be damned, that was what Dagro used to say at
moments like this. The words had barely concealed his joy at doing
exactly what suited him, and Raina only hoped that someday she might
feel the same.

"Lady." Corbie Meese fell in step with
her as she crossed the hall. The hammerman had elected to stay behind
to defend the roundhouse while Blackhail's armies rode to war. His
wife Sarolyn had just given birth to her first baby, a daughter, and
although the child was doing well Sarolyn was still abed. "You
do us proud."

She stopped to look at him, and saw that he was
dressed in formal battle gear, complete with hammer chains, gleaming
leather fronts, and armored gloves tucked beneath his hammer harness,
high on his left shoulder. Glad and sad she smiled at him. "Tonight
is for us—for Blackhail."

He read her face carefully, his hazel eyes
earnest. She knew why he had sought her out to speak with her. He
wanted to know what she felt about this evening. Could it really be
legitimate, this hacked-off stone from another clan? By speaking to
waylay him she had prevented them both from having to hear those
damning words spoken out loud.

He bowed to her—hammermen who had trained
under Naznarri Drac, the Griefbringer, were always courtly. "The
warriors follow you in this."

She held herself steady as he turned and left,
realizing that the stiff formal dress with its silver panel and waist
chain had turned her into a symbol of her clan. And little was
required of a symbol save to evoke pride in that which it
represented. Only when he was out of sight did she allow herself to
breathe. She had not realized how much had rested on her statement.
Corbie Meese had not acted alone. Even as she stood here, breathing
the quick shallow breaths necessary to survive in such a dress, the
hammerman was carrying word upstairs to the greathearth and the men
who waited there. Raina Blackhail supports the Hallowing.

Hearts do not break, she warned it sternly. All
she had to do was get through this evening with dignity. She could
not allow herself to think of Stannig Beade and his perfect
manipulation, must focus solely on the drawing together of her clan.
A group of Scarpe women with dyed black hair and dresses of various
shades of red watched her with cool insolence as she stood and
thought. The women had been cracking open hazelnuts with armorer's
pliers, and Raina was willing to bet that the pliers had come
straight from Brog Widdie's forge. Unable to stop herself, she
marched right up to the women. "Leave this hall," she
commanded. "Only Hailsfolk are allowed here this night."

A girl who might have been pretty if it wasn't for
her dyed hair and ugly sneer, shot back. "That's not what we
heard."

Raina felt the blood rush to her face. She wanted
to smack the girl and grab the pliers from her skinny little friend.
Luckily the dress would not allow it; its fabric would not
accommodate stooping so low. Keeping her head level, she spoke one
word. "Go."

Until that moment Raina had not known she
possessed such a voice. Utterly cold and hard as nails, it served up
exactly what was ordered. After snatching brief glances at each
other, the four women turned and fled.

Raina just blinked. She felt as if she had
discovered a secret power.

I must wear this dress more often, she thought as
she went outside.

Torches as tall as two men were already burning in
a great circle around the roundhouse. Phosphorus had been sprinkled
on the oil-soaked twigs and the flames shooting up were silver. Hot
sparks sailed on the breeze, and the crackle of burning minerals
filled the air. It was just beyond sunset and natural light was
receding, and despite everything Raina found herself stirred. The
scent of boiling pig's blood triggered primal urges in her brain. She
wanted to feed. And flee.

The large paved greatcourt in front of the
roundhouse was where the ceremony would take place. Stannig Beade and
his helpers were busy with preparations. The almost square-shaped
chunk of Scarpestone had been raised on a platform that had been
entirely plated in silver. Brog Widdie and his assistant Glynn
Goodlamb had spent the past four days hammering the sheet metal into
place. Glynn was still there now, lying by the foot of the platform,
polishing the silver with white vinegar. The stone itself was covered
with rich skins; sable, bearhide, musk ox and lynx. The skins were
held together by an intricate network of silver wire that glittered
along the seams like running water. A deep, rectangular-shaped
trench had been dug around the platform at a distance of seven feet.
Raina could only imagine the work it must have taken, for the baked
clay stones that paved the great court were huge.

Stannig Beade was squatting by the trench, pouring
in fluid from a wooden cask. He was dressed in Blackhail colors, his
pigskin coat dyed black and freshly collared with a roll of silver
cloth. Raina had heard that he had commissioned a new line of tattoos
to honor the ceremony. As he finished his task and turned toward the
light of the torches she saw it: a band of scarified flesh stretching
across both eye-lids. She had to fight the urge to step back. Some of
the pinholes were still oozing blood.

The clan guide of Scarpe noted Raina's revulsion
and turned his back on her. Raina felt dismissed. She moved away,
past the platform and the smokefires and the vat of boiling blood.
People were gathering now, spilling through the greatdoor and around
the sides of the roundhouse. Raina walked against the crowd. People
made way for her, moving from their paths so she need not veer from
her own. Faces were grave and excited. Torchlight and blood fumes
charged the air. Children and pregnant women were forbidden from
attending the ceremony. Rumor had it that Hallowings had taken place
where the unborn had dropped from women's wombs. Raina herself knew
little of what was to come. Two days back Stannig Beade had summoned
her to his stonemill and told her what she must do. It was a simple
task—just carry the Menhir torch to the guidestone—and
she found herself much relieved.

It was a good night for it. No clouds marred the
sky and the stars were scattered in immense and sparkling waves. A
faint and shifting band of green to the north might have been the
Gods' Lights; Stannig Beade would be happy as a crow about that. It
was hard not to be bitter. All the fine preparations; the sea of
silver plate, the clanfolk in their rarely used finery, the wild call
of the pig's blood. Stannig Beade had done an excellent job. Perhaps
he believed the gods would come. Perhaps I should try believing that
myself.