A Cavern of Black Ice (11 page)

And then there was Drey. Raif glanced
over his shoulder, where Drey stood only a pace behind him, a handful
of Raif's oilskin twisting in his fist. If Raif meant to move forward
to speak, Drey meant to pull him back.

"Dagro's body," Raif hissed
for Drey's ears alone. "It wasn't—

"What's that you say, boy?"
Mace Blackhail spun the roan around. Brass bow and hammer hooks
jangled like bells. "Speak up. We are all clan here. What you
say to one you must say to all."

Anger made Raif slam his elbow into
Drey's fist to free himself from his brother's hold. Blood pumped
into his temples as he spoke. "I said that Dagro Blackhail
didn't fall by the posts. We found him by the rack. He was butchering
the black bear carcass when he was taken."

Mace Blackhail's eyes darkened. His
lips curled, and for half an instant Raif thought he was about to
smile. Then just as quickly he wheeled back to face the meet party,
stopping all hushed mutterings dead. "I moved the body from the
posts to the drying rack. I didn't want to leave my father outside
the tent circle, exposed. It may have been foolish, but I wanted to
him close to the fire."

"But the bear's blood—"

Drey grabbed Raif's wrist with such
force that bones cracked. "Enough, Raif. You're hounding the
wrong person. It's the Dog Lord and his clan that we should be
attacking. We both saw the grooved hoofprints made by the Bluddsmen,
you can't deny that. What else
didn't
we see? In our way we
acted just like Mace—doing things foolishly without thinking.
We weren't there, remember. We weren't there. While we crept away in
the dark to shoot ice hares, Mace was standing dogwatch over the
camp. We can't blame him for slipping bounds to see off a bear.
Either one of us would have done the same."

Releasing his hold on Raif's wrist,
Drey turned and faced his brother full on. Although his expression
was tense, there was an unmistakable appeal in his eyes. "Mace
did the right thing coming back, Raif. He acted like clan, doing what
any experienced clansman would have done. We acted like"—Drey
hesitated, searching for the right words—"two brothers who
had just lost their da."

Raif looked down, away from his
brother's gaze and the sharp looks of the meet party. Drey had just
won himself a lot of respect in the eyes of the clan; Raif saw it in
their eyes as they listened to him speak. Drey was the voice of
reason, humbling himself, speaking with the same weighted reluctance
that his father had before him. Raif swallowed, his throat suddenly
sore. For a moment it had been just like listening to Tem.

Glancing up, Raif saw Mace Blackhail
watching him. His face was fixed in lines of concern, in keeping with
the new mood Drey had set, in keeping also with rest of the meet
party, who waited quietly, gravely, to see what Drey Sevrance's
troublesome younger brother would do. Raif's gaze descended from Mace
Blackhail's face to his gloved hands, which flicked at the roan's
mane with all the satisfaction of a wolf switching its tail. Drey had
done his work for him.

Mace Blackhail's gaze met Raif s, and
in that instant Raif knew he was dealing with something worse than a
craven. Mace Blackhail had ridden to the badlands on a stocky,
fat-necked cob, one of twenty dozen other yearmen, a fosterling from
another, lesser clan. Now he sat on his foster father's blue smoke
roan, wearing a wolf cloak that reflected only rich shades of black,
speaking with a newly modulated voice and manner, and adopting the
clan chiefs authority along with his clothes and his horse.

Raif massaged his wrist where Drey had
gripped it. It wasn't even worth asking how Mace had come to ride
home upon his foster father's gelding. Mace Blackhail wasn't going to
be caught out this late in the game.

"Raif."

Drey's voice brought Raif back to the
meet. Looking into his brother's face, Raif saw how tired his brother
looked. It had been a long six days for both of them, yet it was Drey
who had carried a greater portion of the weight on the journey back,
Drey who had spent an extra hour each night stripping logs down to
the heartwood so the fire wouldn't burn out while they slept.

"You two lads need to come
inside." It was Shor Gormalin, speaking in his soft burr. The
small, fair-haired man, whose quiet ways disguised the fiercest
swordsman in the clan, looked from Drey to Raif as he spoke. "You've
walked a long way, and had a hard journey, and seen things that none
here would wish to see. And no matter what was the right and wrong of
what you did, you stayed and saw to our dead. For that alone we owe
you more than any here can repay."

Shor paused. Everyone in the meet party
either nodded or murmured, "Aye." A muffled sob escaped
from Merritt Ganlow's lips.

"So come wi' me now. Let Inigar
grind some guidestone for your tines, and let us warm you and feed
you and welcome you home. You are clan, and you are needed, and you
must tell us of our kin."

The swordsman's words had a profound
effect on the faces of the meet party. Orwin Shank closed his eyes
and held a fist to his heart. Seeing their father's actions, the two
Shank yearmen did likewise. Other yearmen followed, and within
seconds the entire meet party sat high on their saddles, eyes closed
or cast down, paying due respect to those who were dead. Raina
Blackhail trotted her horse over to Shor Gormalin's side and laid her
hand on the swordsman's arm.

Out of the corner of his eye, Raif saw
Mace Blackhail look up and take note of the contact. His eyes caught
and reflected a thin break of sunlight, and for an instant they shone
yellow like a wolfs.

Forcing aside his unease, Raif stepped
toward his brother. Drey was waiting for him and brought up his arm
straightaway, wrapping it around Raif's shoulder. He didn't speak,
and Raif was glad of it. There was little choice here: Raif loved his
brother and respected Shor Gormalin too much to hold out against
them.

Shor Gormalin vaulted from his horse
with the speed and agility that never failed to surprise Raif, even
though he had seen the swordsman do so many times before. A moment
later Corbie Meese also dismounted, and the two clansmen came
forward, offering Drey and Raif their mounts. Mace Blackhail trotted
his horse down the slope, positioning himself to be head rider when
the meet party turned for home.

Shor Gormalin's blue eyes looked
straight at Raif as he handed him his reins. " 'Tis a good thing
you did, lad, you and your brother. We are Blackhail, the first of
all clans. We must be and act as one in this."

Raif took the reins. Although he didn't
say it outright, Shor Gormalin spoke of war.

The party of twenty-six rode in single
and double file down the slope toward the roundhouse. As the wind had
turned and quickened, they were forced to ride through the
roundhouse's smoke. Raif didn't mind. The smoke was warm and smelled
of good, honest things like resinous wood, charred mutton, and shale
oil. The darkness it created hid his face.

"Not well. She seemed…"
Raina shook her head, searched for the right word. "Angry. She
ran away, and for the longest time no one could find her. We tore the
roundhouse apart looking. Corbie Meese and Longhead arranged a search
party. Letty and the girls lit torches and walked the length of the
graze. Orwin Shank's two eldest rode as far as the Wedge. It was Shor
Gormalin who found her in the end—tucked in the corner of the
little dog cote, stiff with cold and covered in dirt. Had that
blessed stone of hers in her hand. Rocking back and forth with it,
she was. Made herself so sick she could barely stand." Raina
clicked her tongue. "How she managed not to get eaten by those
wolfhounds the Shanks keep, I'll never know. Orwin feeds them but
twice a week, I swear."

Relaxing his grip on his reins, Raif
guided Shor Gormalin's gelding around a bank of loose shale. His own
anger suddenly didn't seem important anymore. "How's she been
since?"

"Well, that's what I came to warn
you about. She's lost a bit of weight. And she keeps so much to
herself…" Raina's words trailed away as a small figure
stepped out from the roundhouse below.

As Raif and Raina trotted their horses
down into the valley, and Mace Blackhail and his lead riders drew
close to the roundhouse, the figure took hesitant, child-size steps
forward. It was Effie. Her dark auburn hair gave her away. Raif
leaned forward in his saddle. She was so
thin
.

"Just you be careful with her,
Raif Sevrance," Raina Blackhail said, kicking her horse forward.
"You and Drey are all she has."

Raif barely acknowledged what Raina
said. He glanced two riders ahead, where Drey was riding at Orwin
Shank's side. Drey looked back. His fox hood was up again, and the
sky was nearly black, but the expression on his face was clear.
What
has happened to Effie
?

Feeling a stab of unease in his chest,
Raif kicked Shor Gormalin's gelding into a canter and raced along the
file. Drey came seconds behind.

The beaten clay court outside the
roundhouse greatdoor was filling rapidly with people. Some carried
pitch-soaked torches, others smoking racks of charred mutton and
spits of rabbits roasted in their skins. A few brought feed and
blankets for the horses. One figure, Anwyn Bird by the looks of her
round belly, rolled a keg of hearth-warmed beer before her that
belched steam into the freezing air.

Effie stood ahead of everyone, her
shoulders hunched together, shivering and clutching her blue woolen
dress. No one had thought to throw a cloak over her shoulders or push
mitts on her hands. As Raif approached, he saw where his sister's
cheeks had sunk away, leaving little pits beneath her eyes and around
her jaw. His heart ached to see them.

He slid from his horse and ran to her.
Effie took a small step forward. Her grave little face was turned up
toward his, and after a moment she held out her arms and waited to be
taken. Raif scooped her up and brought her to his chest. Pushing her
body against his, he drew her within the folds of his oilskin to
protect her from the cold. She was so light. It was like picking up a
blanket stuffed with straw. Raif hugged her harder, wanting to give
her his heat and his strength.

Then Drey was there, and Effie shifted
in Raif's arms and Raif released her to his brother. Drey's big arms
enveloped Effie completely, and his head came down to hers, and he
kissed her hair and her temples and the bridge of her nose. "It's
all right, little one. We're back now. Raif and I are back."

Effie snuggled against Drey's chest. "I
knew," she said quietly, seriously, glancing from Drey to Raif,
then over to Mace Blackhail, who was busy hefting the saddle from the
roan. "He said you were dead, but I
knew
it wasn't so."

The Inverted Spire

Ash March twisted the sheets around herself as she
turned in her sleep. Linen spun so smoothly by the old women of
Maker's Isle that it felt as cool as glass rode up between her
thighs, wound around her belly, and coiled about her wrists.

Ash dreamed she was enclosed within a
womb of ice. Blue white light shone on her arms and legs, making them
gleam like smooth metal. The icewall was slick where she had touched
it, skin warmed and dripping. Ice squeaked and cracked as she moved.
Frost fumes filled her mouth like milk.

If she could just push further,
deeper
.

Something shifted. The massive lode of
ice above her juddered, and freezing splinters rained on her face and
chest. Spiky and hard as needles, they punctured the skin on her arms
and her breasts, drawing tiny drops of blood. Even as Ash brushed
away the splinters, the ice ceiling dropped. A blizzard of cold air
pumped against her face, and then the ice ceiling slammed into her
chest. Ice shattered against her skin with a crack of white light,
and a spume of sleet and smoke filled the air.

Ash screamed.

Suddenly there was nothing below her,
and she fell and fell and fell.

Voices whispered to her, coaxed and
pleaded like starving men.
Reach, mistressss. So cold here, so
dark. Reach
.

Ash shook her head. She tried to move,
but her body was numb. Frozen.

No longer falling, she stood in the
center of a cavern of black ice. All was dark except for the glimmer
of smoothly frozen things. Even the breath that steamed from the
walls was dark and dense, like smoke from a poorly aired fire. Fear
gnawed at the edges of Ash's thoughts. When she breathed she took in
the smell of cold things. She was not alone. Something within the
cavern stirred. It made no move toward her, but it shifted its weight
so that its presence would be known.

We have waited such a long time,
mistressss: a thousand years in our chains of blood. Dare you make us
wait a thousand more?

Ash felt her knees buckle. The voice
pulled
.

In the distance, beyond where she could
see, beyond even the walls of the cave, creatures with muzzles
howled. Shadows flickered upon the surface of the ice, man shapes and
beasts and demon horses. And then suddenly there was no ice at all,
just darkness that stretched toward a place where Ash knew in the
deepest depths of her soul that she did not want to be.

Reach, mistressss. Pretty
mistressss. Reach.

At her side, the bones in her wrists
twisted. Saddles of muscle in her chest and back tensed, ready to
pull weight. Tendons strained. Fingers uncurled, forcing a closed
fist into an open hand as knuckles cracked like wet sticks.

Reach for us. Reach for us
.
REACH.

Bones glided in their sockets as Ash's
arms began to rise.

Kaaw!
A raven's cry pierced
the darkness, jolting Ash's body like a needle in her spine.