A Sword From Red Ice (77 page)

Raina's boots punched though the melted then
refrozen snow, leaving deep pits. She did not trust herself to say
anything—speak and she would make a mistake—so she kept
her silence and watched her feet.

Longhead's oversize jaw came up as he squinted at
the clouds. "Beade has asked me to prepare your old chambers for
the Scarpe chief, Yelma Scarpe. She will visit next month."

Raina's mouth fell open. Of all the things
Longhead could have told her she would never have imagined this. The
Scarpe chief, here? It was so astonishing she didn't know what to
think. Glancing up, she saw the head keep was watching her carefully.
She closed her mouth. Had he been looking at the remains of her
bruise?

"It's not fitting that she stay in your
chambers," he said, shaking his head. "A chief's wife must
be allowed superiority in her clan."

I do not care about my chambers, Raina wanted to
tell him, not kindly, but didn't. She could see that he was offended
as a Hailsman. "When will she come?"

Longhead seemed relieved that she had finally
spoken and jumped to answer her question. "When the weather
clears. Beade says she will not travel while snow is on the ground."

Let it freeze hard then. Aware that Longhead was
waiting for her opinion, she searched for something comforting to
say. And found she had nothing to give. Breaking away from him, she
murmured, "You must do as Beade bids."

Raina made her way toward the stables and did not
look back. She had no wish to see disappointment on the head keep's
face.

The young groom whom she had spoken with during
her last visit to the stables helped her saddle Mercy. Raina asked
his name and was informed it was Duggin Lye. He was good with the
chestnut mare, speaking to her in soft clicks as he tightened her
belly cinch. Raina was glad to have him there, for Mercy knew all was
not right with her mistress and was restive. Duggin's presence
seemed to calm her, and she did not fight the bit. "I took the
creek trail myself this morning," Duggin said to Raina, making
sure the nose strap was seated properly. "If you're wanting a
fair run you couldn't do much better. The Oldwood's sparkly with
ice."

Silent, she took the reins from him. The boy had
probably spent most of the day alone with the horses and was eager to
talk. How would he know that that Oldwood was not a word she loved to
hear? She made an effort. "I believe I will go north instead."

Duggin Lye, who had to be all of sixteen and had
the blackheads to prove it, looked at her with some wisdom. "North's
best when you're needing to clear your mind."

Raina walked Mercy onto the court, mounted her,
and trotted around the outbuildings. She could smell pigs in their
sties, and the loamy sweetness coming from the dairyshed as the cows
were being milked. Mercy trod frozen cow pats and clumps of hay into
the snow. She was glad to be out and her head was up, but her ears
kept flicking back toward her rider.

Deciding she would not think for a while, Raina
kicked Mercy into a canter. They were clear of the outbuildings now
and free to find a path north. Some old bit of wall stuck up above
the snow and Mercy seemed keen to jump it so Raina gave the horse her
head. It was then, in midair with her butt no longer in full contact
with saddle leather, that Raina began to feel better. The landing was
bracing and her spine felt it all the way up to her neck. All the old
air ejected from her lungs and she had to fill them with new, outside
air instead. This was what she needed. Too much inside, too many
whispers, too many calls upon the ragged little bit of herself that
was left. When chiefing got too much for Dagro he had simply taken
off. A man could do that, go hunting and have everyone agree that it
was a worthy thing and that when he got back he would be renewed.
During the winter longhunt season Dagro might take off for weeks. He
would share a tent with old Meth Ganlow, Merritt's husband, and the
two of them would hunt during the day and get drunk as donkeys each
night. There'd be dumb tricks—pants would be dipped in the lake
and frozen, straight arrows replaced with ones fiendishly steamed
into curves—there'd be earnest talk about the best way to make
jerky, and someone would always end up getting lost in the woods,
initiating the kind of heroic search and rescue that could be bragged
about for days.

It was a release, Raina realized now. Dagro had
both needed and deserved it. He did not lead the hunt. Even if he had
possessed the expertise he wouldn't have wanted to. Let Tern Sevrance
or Meth Ganlow do that.

Raina dug her heels into Mercy's belly, whipping
her into full gallop. Snow sprayed as high as the saddle and year-old
saplings were crushed under hoof, releasing the scent of pine. Spying
a trapping path running alongside the Leak, Raina guided Mercy
northwest. The Leak was running; a thread of crystal-clear water
overhung by ledges of crackled ice. Tall, desiccated grasses clumped
on the bank, and Raina could see peeps of green where the new year's
growth had started. Mercy seemed to enjoy flattening them, even going
so far as leaving the path to get to them, and this made Raina laugh.
Poor plants. First they had to put up with late snows and sudden
frosts, and now along comes a horse and squashes them. It was
definitely better being Raina Blackhail than a stationary clump of
grass.

She laughed even harder at that. And it felt good.
Her fine wool cloak and dress were too skimpy for such icy
conditions, and she had not thought to bring gloves, but it hardly
mattered. Raina Blackhail had been Raina Kenrick once—and the
Kenrick girl rarely dressed for the cold. "Don't be fussing
her," Uncle Burdo would tell her mother. "As long as she
keeps moving she'll stay warm."

Raina kept moving, first along the stream and then
north onto one of the trapping paths that led into the forest. Mercy
was happy to run. When Dagro had purchased her as a filly from a
horse trader at the Dhoone Fair he had been told she was
"one-sixteenth Sull." Apparently this number had sealed the
deal. Dagro had joked about it later, saying that it meant one of
Mercy's ears and half a knee joint were Sullish, but Raina could tell
he'd been secretly pleased. It meant that all of Mercy's offspring
would be one in thirty-two parts Sull. Yet in the end he'd only let
her dam the once. She was Raina's horse by then.

As they approached the first stand of old-growth
pines, Raina slowed Mercy to a trot. Beyond those trees lay the great
northern forest of Blackhail and you had to be in a certain mind and
properly equipped to safely enter. An unlined wool cloak would not
do. It was one thing to ride carelessly along meadowland. Another
thing entirely to take to the woods. Glancing at the sky, she
realized it would be dark within the hour and she needed to be
heading back. For all she knew Merritt Ganlow was still fuming by the
supply cart, wondering what had happened to the goosedowns Raina had
promised to deliver four hours earlier.

And then there was Anwyn Bird. As Raina turned
Mercy south she wondered what time constituted "supper." It
would be after dark certainly. But whose supper exactly? Anwyn's?
Orwin's?

Raina thought she should get a move on, and kicked
Mercy into a brisk trot. The top layer of snow hardened as the
temperature dropped and every hoof fall made an explosive crack. It
was easier at first to think about Longhead. Five days back she had
asked the head keep to come to her if Beade took any further action
concerning the Hailhouse. Today he had done just that. In return she
had been short and dismissive, when perhaps she should have been
grateful. Longhead was no friend of Beade's. Not informing her about
the new ward and guidehouse had been a simple error in judgment,
Longhead was Longhead: he wanted to get things done. He had come to
her hoping she would take a problem off his hands so he could keep
working and not have to worry about the distressing events happening
in the clan. She had been no help to him. Raina blew air from her
nostrils, cogitating. He had caught her at a bad moment. Tomorrow she
would seek him out and see if there wasn't something they could do.
With all the damage to the east wall, the broken well shafts, the
disturbed underground springs, it would be regrettable, but hardly
surprising, if the chief's wife's chambers were to suddenly and
unexpectedly flood.

Smiling softly, Raina patted Mercy's neck.
Detecting a subtle shift in her rider's spirits, the mare tossed her
head and executed some fancy footwork that took her sideways as well
as forward. Raina had always wondered who had taught her that. Maybe
it was in her Sull blood.

It was growing dark as they rejoined the path
along the Leak. Raina forced herself to think of Anwyn, and found
little to like about their conversation in the widows' wall. Anwyn
Bird was her oldest and dearest friend. Even if she wanted to rid
Blackhail of Stannig Beade it did not change the fact of her concern.
That night after Raina had fled the chief's chamber it had been Anwyn
who banged on the door of her cell, Anwyn who demanded entry, Anwyn
who had looked so murderous upon seeing Raina's inflamed face that
Raina thought the clan matron might march through the roundhouse and
punch Stannig Beade in the head. It was Anwyn who brought the salves
and cool water, and informed people the next morning that Raina had a
fever and might be abed for a few days.

It was Anwyn Bird, not Raina Blackhail who had to
watch the bruise turn purple and black.

Raina raised her hand to her cheek, touching the
patch of skin that had come in contact with Stannig Beade's fist. A
slight tenderness still remained.

He has cowed you, Raina.

It was the truth, she had been cowed. Raina had
never told Anwyn what had happened in the Oldwood, but the clan
matron must have suspected something. The evening after the wedding
had taken place Anwyn had brought Raina her bride's cup in the
greathearth. "What's done is done," she had said, handing
Raina the traditional drink of milk, bittersweet and honey. "We'll
just have to make the best of it."

Raina thought of those words, trying to remember
the exact expression on Anwyn's face. There had been stoicism and .
. . disappointment. It was as if Anwyn was disappointed in Raina for
not speaking up to defend herself against Mace's claims. Had she
known a few words could have stopped all the misery?

Seeing the safelamps being lit outside the
stables, Raina picked up Mercy's pace. Orwin Shank had been the one
who called her in to account the night after Mace Blackhail had raped
her. Orwin had been flustered, upset by what Mace had told him,
anxious to get the whole mess over and done with, yet still deeply
respectful of Raina. If she had spoken up at that moment, told Orwin
the truth, would he have believed her? The answer would not come. It
was a different time; Blackhail's chief had just died, Mace was well
regarded in the clan and was proving himself capable of taking
Dagro's place. The question that mattered now was: Would Orwin take
her word over Stannig Beade's?

She was surprised by how foolish the answer made
her feel. We are many, Anwyn had said.

Yes, Raina mouthed. We are.

Duggin Lye was lighting the last of the lamps as
Raina and Mercy trotted onto the court. Thrusting the burning edge of
the torch into the cobbles, he extinguished the flame.

"Take her from me, will you?" Raina
asked him, dismounting. "I don't want to be late for supper."

Coming forward to take the reins, he said
something Raina did not understand. "Supper's already late."

Assuming it was the grumble of a hungry boy who
had gone too long between meals, she ignored it. Dashing across to
the east wall, she waved brief acknowledgments to the two men who
were spreading burlap sheets over the timber piles and lime barrels.
They must be expecting snow in the night. Always when you walked
through the east hall there was that jump of metal next to your skin.
Raina was expecting it and had her hand ready on her knife.

It was only when she reached the entrance hall
that she began to suspect something was wrong. A roundhouse had an
atmosphere, you could read it in the way people sat and stood, the
number of torches burning, the doors left open, the smells, the
smoke, the noise. It was early evening and it took Raina a few
moments to understand and then catalog the absences. The luntman had
skimped on his rounds and only a quarter of the torches were burning.
Too many doors were open and there was an unfamiliar crosscurrent of
drafts. It was too quiet for suppertime when normally the great
clangor from the kitchen rang through the house, drowning out the
noise of the forge.

And there was no supper smell.

The world spun on that one simple fact, passing
from light into darkness as it moved beneath Raina's feet.

Raina broke into a run.

She knew.

People tried to stop her, but she slapped them
away and hissed at them. Don't. Don't. Don't, she warned, not knowing
if she said the words out loud. When she entered the kitchen Corbie
Meese came forward to intercept her, but she would not have it. How
she stopped him from halting her progress was something she would
never know. Down the little steps she went, hesitating only for a
moment when she reached the bottom. Two ways led from the stairs: one
toward the gameroom, and the other to the cells and supply rooms.
Orwin Shank stood guard outside Anwyn's chamber. When he saw her he
shook his head and told her, "No, my sweet lamb, come no
further."

But she could not stop moving and he did not
possess the might necessary to halt her and she entered the room
where Anwyn Bird lay dead.

A Bear Trap

Snow fell as they worked their way east. On the
first day it fell lightly, a shimmer of crystals in the air in the
late afternoon before dark. The day after it did much the same, but
the next morning it began more heavily. A persistent wind blew from
the east and it was hard to keep warm, but at least it was not
bleakly cold. On the fourth day it was warm—enough that the
ground snow melted . . . but still it managed to snow. The fifth day
was different, colder. The snow had come down in hard, gipsy pellets;
Raif imagined the name for them was "ice." Walking on them
was like walking on marbles and they'd headed north into the spruce
forest to avoid them. The next day had passed without snow, but Addie
said it couldn't reliably be trusted and it was either snowing
somewhere very close or would spring upon them while they slept. He
was right, for when they woke this morning a steady snow was falling,
and half a foot had accumulated overnight. They were growing
accustomed to sleeping through it. Though it had been strange not to
be able to find the fire let alone relight it. Addie had been stoic.
"Next time we'll set it on a stone to keep the heat in."
The good thing was the trees were no longer stunted and could be
bivouacked for shelter so at least they had some protection from the
weather. It meant that camp took longer to set up so they had to stop
earlier in the day but they both agreed it was a worthwhile trade.
Being snowed on while you slept was an experience not unlike being
buried alive. In ice.