A Sword From Red Ice (62 page)

Bram had been unsure whether or not to touch it.
This is my guidestone, he told himself, forcing his hand up. When his
fingers were a pin's length from the stone he felt a force, like a
magnet attracting metal, pull them in. Sucking in his breath he made
a small, astonished sound, and watched as his hand homed to the
stone.

It showed him things, flooding them into his
thoughts in waves that hit in quick succession. A river fork. A man
in a bearskin hat. Wrayan Castlemilk bouncing his swearstone in her
hand. Robbie smiling and saying, Do it. Bram saw a dense forest of
trees and something rippling through them. Water? he questioned
uneasily, before the stone snatched the vision away. After that he
could not keep up with the flood of images, they crashed against him
and fled. Parchment unrolling. A room cased in lead. A second river
forking . . .

His hand snapped back, jolted and released, and
his arm whiplashed with the shock. Exhaling in a great push he
realized he had been holding his breath. For a minute he just stood
there, breathing and staring at the palm of his hand, as the jolt
the guidestone had given him dissipated through muscle and bone.

Drouse Ogmore's voice had broken through his daze.
"You will spend half of each day here, working for me. Tomorrow
I will expect you at noon."

The guide must have seen some of what had
happened, Bram realized later, for he was standing all the while by
the door, yet he had never mentioned it, and never again urged Bram
to touch the stone. Deciding he'd better get started, Bram put his
good foot to the shovel and started digging out snow. He'd been
helping at the guidehouse for seven days now and it was not the sort
of work he would have imagined. He had thought he would learn secrets
and history. Surely guides must know the clan histories? Legend had
it that when the clanholds won their territory from the Sull the
guides drove giant war-carts into battle. Some said that the
guidestones themselves were loaded onto those cartbeds. Bram got
excited just thinking about it. Such a sight would have been wondrous
to see. Why didn't Ogmore talk about that?

The Milk guide just broke rock. He spent most of
his days up the stepladder chiseling rock from the stone's northern
face, or at his work bench breaking, grinding and sorting the
fragments. Sometimes he would use the bow drill, bracing it against
his chest with a wooden tile, as he yanked it back and forth. At the
rear of the roundhouse there was a stone mill, the kind that could be
driven by an ox, but Bram had yet to see Ogmore use it. When Bram
asked him about it, the guide had favored him with one of his
withering stares. "At Castlemilk we do not waste the gods'
breath unless we must."

Considering this statement later, Bram had decided
Ogmore was referring to the dust that would get blown away in the
wind if the guidestone fragments were ground outside. Certainly
Ogmore was obsessed with collecting every last mote that dropped on
the guidehouse floor. Bram was allowed to sweep only when all doors
and windows were closed, and when Ogmore was drilling through one of
the hallowed planes of the stone, Bram had to be sure to set down a
sheet to capture the sacred powder.

That was another thing he'd learned: Not all parts
of the stone were equal. Ogmore divided the Milkstone into faces and
planes, and used different sections for different purposes. Ogmore
did most of his work on the stone's north face, where the powdered
guidestone was mined. Two days ago when word came from Dhoone that a
Castlemilk warrior wounded in the retaking had succumbed to his
injuries and died, Ogmore had taken his chisel to the southeast
corner and cut out a heart-size wedge of stone. The stone there was
rich with pyrites and difficult to work and Ogmore had to use pliers
at times to cut through the metal. By the time he was finished he had
produced something beautiful and gristly, a fitting substitute for a
warrior's heart.

Yesterday Bram had watched as Ogmore tapped off a
chalky segment from the guidestone's bulbous south face.
"Swearstones," he'd replied when asked. None of it so far
had been what Bram expected. It was strenuous work, and he'd fall
into bed at night, aching and sweating, his eyes and throat scoured
by dust. So far Ogmore had not allowed him to grind or sort the
stone. He hauled it, swept it, oiled and cared for the tools, spread
the dust sheets, split timber for the smoke fires, cleaned the
workbenches, fetched water from the river, scrubbed the collecting
basins and shoveled snow. Nathaniel Shayrac was permitted to grind
and pan-sift the fragments, though no one but the guide himself ever
took a chisel to the Milkstone.

Bram paused in his shoveling to survey his work.
The double doors of the guidehouse now had a ten-foot space cleared
around them, and some fairly neat mounds of chucked snow lay off to
the sides. The question was: Would ten feet be enough? Bram thought
of Ogmore, frowned and then resumed shoveling. Another five were
called for.

He thought about the clan guide's riding to battle
as he worked. That would be a fine thing, he decided. To be able to
fight and possess knowledge all at once.

He was faint with exhaustion by the time he was
done. His knees were loose and wobbly, and the sword blister on the
right hand had swollen to the size of an eyeball and split. He had to
use his little finger to work the doorlatch.

Switching from the afternoon dazzle of snow to the
shadows of the guidehouse took some adjustment, and Bram was caught
off-guard when Nathaniel's pale face loomed close to his.

He tutted, shooting out missiles of bad breath.
"How does it feel to have your brother sell you?"

Bram swung at him. Nathaniel was prepared and
jumped back. Bram tried to track his shape in the murky dimness,
thought he detected a movement and took a second swipe. Striking air,
he fell off balance and couldn't get his treacherous knees to save
him. As he fell Nathaniel punched him in the head.

"Young men," hissed Drouse Ogmore,
"control yourselves."

The guide stood at the southeast corner of the
guidestone and glared at them. Bram blinked. The guidehouse was
rocking and he needed it to stop. For some reason he smelled skinned
rabbit—the smell of his mother's workroom growing up.

"Take it," Ogmore said.

Bram wondered what he meant, and then something
skin-colored and fan-shaped dropped into view. A hand. Nathaniel's
hand. It would help if he could keep it still. Tentatively, Bram sent
up his own hand and watched as it swayed back and forth like pondweed
before Nathaniel's came and gobbled it up.

The pain of the split blister being squeezed of
its juice brought Bram round. Yanked to his feet, he sent everything
he had to his knees, it was barely enough to keep him upright.

"I'll have no fighting in this guidehouse, do
you hear me?" Ogmore's gaze darted between Bram and Nathaniel.

"He was—"

"No excuses," snapped the guide,
silencing Nathaniel. "You shame the gods with petty blame."

Nathaniel's long face, with its uncommon amount of
space between the nostrils and upper lip, colored hotly.

"Go to the roundhouse and fetch my supper."
Ogmore stared hard at Nathaniel until he moved. Then, turning to
Bram, "You. In the back with me."

Bram concentrated on his knees as he followed
Ogmore's swirling pigskins around the eastern face of the Milkstone.

The rear section of the guidehouse had been
partitioned off from the main hall and several small rooms had been
framed. Ogmore's private sleeping chamber was located here, as well
as a small dining area, and stockrooms. Leading Bram into the dining
area, Ogmore said, "Sit. Take some water."

Bram sat on the polished birch bench with great
care, like a man who had drunk too much and was trying to conceal it.
The table was rocking and he thought he might be sick.

Perhaps realizing that it was going to take Bram
some time to get to the water, Ogmore poured a cup and handed it to
him. "Do you know why this guidehouse is made out of wood and
not stone?"

Anticipating that it would be better to speak than
shake his head, Bram said, "No."

"The old clan guide, Meadmorn Castlemilk,
designed it so that if it's ever besieged we can torch it and burn
alive those who would steal our stone." Ogmore paused and then
told Bram, "Drink."

Bram did. The water was cool and gritty.

"The Milkstone would not be burned. Changed
perhaps, but not destroyed. Meadmorn reckoned it worth the risk."
Drouse Ogmore looked straight at Bram, his deep-set eyes gleaming in
the light of the half-shuttered window. "A flaming can sometimes
stop things from falling into the wrong hands."

Water gurgled in Bram's stomach as he realized
that Ogmore was talking about Robbie.

"Count yourself lucky, Bram Cormac, that you
are here."

He didn't come out and say it, but Bram knew what
he meant. Better to have been burned than stay in Robbie Dun Dhoone's
hands. Bram made no reply. Robbie was his brother and he would die
rather than speak a word against him.

Ogmore knew this. Resting his powerful, scarred
and callused hands on the table, he seemed satisfied at what he had
said.

As the rocking in Bram's head subsided, he
realized that the guide must have overheard Nathaniel's words. Why
else speak of Robbie at this moment?

Ogmore was capable of reading thoughts, for he
said, "Nathaniel is worried you will take his place as my
apprentice."

Bram heard the rise in the guide's voice, and
understood what it meant. He waited.

Ogmore stood and crossed the short distance to the
window. Bram assumed he would close the shutter as the sun was fading
and a frost was setting in, yet the guide threw it back. "Castlemilk
needs two things above all else," he said, looking east toward
the Milkhouse and the broken Sull tower where Robbie Dun Dhoone and
his men had garrisoned over winter. "Our numbers of young
warriors are depleted. They have been wooed away by the promised
glory of Dhoone, and we wait, and they do not return. Above all
things a clan must be able to defend its borders and protect its
house. I am clan guide and I do not say this lightly so hear me well:
When a clan is under threat the gods must take second place. Our gods
are hard and dread, but they made us what we are. And what we are is
clansmen. Given a choice we will fight. The gods know this, and even
if they do not forgive, they understand."

Turning from the window, his shoulders limned by
failing light, Ogmore searched Bram's face. "So now you know the
rankings. Warriors first. Guide second. Yet there are many warriors .
. . and one guide. Tell me then, Bram Cormac, who is most important?"

Bram could not. He remained silent.

Ogmore appeared unsurprised yet at the same time
stirred. "As we stand here and speak Blackhail fails. Do you
know why?"

"Their guidestone shattered."

"No." Ogmore spoke with force. "A
new stone can be quarried, new powder can replace the old in
warriors' pouches, it is possible to recover over time from such
blows, yet the Blackhail guide failed his clan so absolutely he sent
it spiraling down into hell." Bram felt hairs prickle along his
arms. "He trained no replacement. He died with his stone in the
darkness of night and the next day Blackhail was doomed. There was no
one to step in and guide the clan in the days when it most needed
guiding. Fatal mistakes were made. The remains of the Hailstone were
left to lie on open ground, in plain sight of the clan. The Walk of
Secession was not performed, and clansmen and clanswomen walked with
the tainted powder at their waists and did not know it was tainted. A
new clan guide was brought in from Scarpe and hauled half of the
Scarpestone north in a cart. This monstrosity was hallowed five
nights back. The crimes against the gods are many and continue, and
while Blackhail lives with an alien stone at its heart it will never
rise from the hole dug by its own guide."

It was close to dark now and Bram could no longer
see Ogmore's face. He wondered how the guide knew so much about
Blackhail, then remembered Wrayan's speech about the birds.

"Tell me now," Drouse Ogmore said, his
voice spun with small prickles, "who is most important: warrior
or guide?"

Bram bowed his head. The motion started the room
rocking one final time. "Guide."

Drouse Ogmore left the word in silence so Bram
could feel the waves it created. Minutes passed as they stared at
each other and only when it was full dark and the only light in the
room came from smoke-fires next door did Ogmore speak.

"Castlemilk needs an apprentice guide. If I
die we need someone to continue the ways of the stone. The mistakes
of Blackhail cannot be ignored. The Milkstone must be protected. And
known. I must teach someone the places to drill and not to drill, the
weak points, the oil reservoirs, the hollows that must never fill
with ice. Knowledge of the old ceremonies must be passed on, for
someone in this clan must always know how to mount a Chief Watch,
replace and hallow a new guidestone, accept the oaths of its
warriors, choose lores for its newborns and chisel hearts. Such are
the dealings of a guide, and I would pass them on to you."

"Will I learn the histories?" Bram
asked.

Ogmore looked at him strangely. "Scholars do
not make good guides."

Bram opened his mouth to ask why, but Ogmore
forestalled him with a raised hand.

"We will speak no more. Do not give me your
answer now. I know you work hard at your swordsmanship under Selco
and Burmish. I also know you spend two hours in the dairy each
morning, performing the simple task necessary for feeding the clan.
Both of these endeavors are right and fitting. For now I would have
you continue all of them, including assisting me in this house, but
know this: I will ask for a choice. When sufficient time has passed
for contemplation I will call you into the presence of the Milkstone
and an answer must be given." Drouse Ogmore walked to the edge
of the table and leant across it so that his face was inches away
from Bram's. "I saw you that day when you touched the stone—it
reached toward you. You must decide if you are willing to reach
back."