A Cavern of Black Ice (74 page)

Yes, Cant had answered her question,
the real one she had not asked. Her foster father had known all
along. Scores of children were abandoned each year in Spire Vanis,
left in doorways of grand manses, on the steps of the Bone Temple, or
at the foot of Theron Pengaron's statue in the Square of Four
Prayers. Hundreds of children must have passed through Iss' hands,
yet he'd chosen to keep just one. A baby girl left outside Vaingate
to die.

Ash closed her eyes, told herself she
must be strong. "Go now," she said to Cant. "Tell
Angus I am ready."

Cant's mouth worked upon a word but did
not speak it. Like a servant obeying orders, he bowed his head and
left.

Only when the door had closed behind
him and she heard the click of the latch did she reach over and grab
the table for support. She had thought her father loved her.

Minutes later when Angus entered the
room, she was composed, her face cleared of all emotion. She was
surprised at the wave of relief she felt upon seeing his big red
face. He looked well and had taken the trouble to shave his beard and
trim his hair.

"You look beautiful," he
said, his gaze missing no detail of her hair, clothes, or feet. "Blue
suits you. I thought it might."

She had forgotten about her new
clothes, forgotten even that she was wearing them. She went to reply,
but for some reason it was hard to speak. Smiling instead, she made a
little twirl to show off her dress. As the wool skirt whipped against
her ankles, it occurred to her that she had performed this little
ceremony countless times for Penthero Iss.

Angus looked at her without smiling.
Suddenly he didn't seem much in the mood for talking, either.

"I want to thank you," Ash
began, "for all the lovely things—"

"Hush," Angus said, not
gently. "It was nothing. Nothing." His voice had a
roughness to it that she didn't understand. "Well, we'd better
be on our way. Raif's waiting outside with the horses." With
that he scooped up the basket containing the remainder of her clothes
and made his way from the room.

Ash put on her new cloak and gloves,
then followed him. In the darkness of the hall she met gazes with
Cloistress Gannet. The tiny black-clad woman gave no greeting, save
to pinch her dry little mouth into an even drier line.

Angus held open the door against the
wind. A storm was picking up, and snowflakes sailed through the
doorway, coming to land on the red-and-cream rug that covered the
floor.
Cant won't like that one bit
, Ash thought, fastening
her cloak ties in haste.

Her new boots sank deep into the snow
as she walked across the courtyard toward Raif. He was standing by a
black iron gate, holding Moose, the bay, and a full-grown pony with
thick legs and a strong neck. The creature was gray, like Moose, but
darker and more blotchy, not so elegantly turned, as Master
Haysticks would say. She had a large head and three white socks and
wasn't a bit like a grand horse at all.

Raif grinned as she approached. The
storm suited him. He didn't shiver or stamp his feet as most people
did in foul weather. Tilting his head toward the pony, he said,
"She's a beauty, isn't she?"

"Yes." Ash stopped short of
the creature so as not to alarm her on their first meeting. "What's
her name?"

"Snowshoe." Raif continued to
grin.

Ash grinned madly back. "It's a
perfect name. Perfect." Stripping off her new gloves, she moved
wide of the pony so she could approach her from the side. "Snowshoe,"
she said softly, to get her attention. Arms down at her side, Ash
stepped closer, presenting herself for sniffing. Master Haysticks had
always been particular about that.
Let a new horse sniff you
before you touch it
, he'd said.
Else it's like a total
stranger coming up to you and poking you in the neck
. Ash very
much wanted Snowshoe to like her. It was suddenly the most important
thing.

Snowshoe sniffed and looked, then made
a rolling motion with her head. Ash glanced at Raif, who nodded.
Leaning in toward the pony, Ash raised her hand and stroked the
bottom of the creature's neck. Snowshoe's huge brown eye watched her
closely. By the time Ash had worked her hand down to the withers,
Snowshoe was moving her chest forward to meet each stroke. Ash's
heart tightened with joy. When Raif held out his hand, presenting her
with a small green apple to give to the pony, she thought she might
cry.

"Take it," he said. "The
last owner said they were her favorites."

The apple was offered and taken.
Snowshoe allowed her mane and back to be stroked while she crunched
it.

"Aye, you've made a friend there,"
Angus said, approaching with the last of the packs. Ash smiled at him
as he loaded the horses. The hound bites on the bay's flanks were no
longer bandaged, and she was relieved to see they were closed and
dry. When she raised her gaze from the gelding's flank, she noticed
Heritas Cant standing in the doorway, watching her.

"Here, give me your wee footie."
Angus bent at the waist, ready to help her mount.

A little unnerved by Cant's presence,
Ash placed her left foot in Angus' cupped hands and levered herself
onto Snowshoe's back. The saddle fit perfectly, and Raif moved
quickly to adjust the stirrups to her leg. Snowshoe held herself
steady all the while, as calm as if she met new riders every day in a
storm.

When everyone was mounted and ready,
Cant called out from the doorway. "The north road should be
clear. Follow it until dark and then turn west when you pass the twin
stormbarns of Clan's Reach."

Angus nodded. "Aye, Heritas. We'll
do just that. I thank you for the warmth of your hearth and the
knowledge you have given. Gods willing, we'll meet again afore
winter's end."

Cant made no reply, save to click his
sticks against the stone step. "I owe you a debt, Heritas Cant,"
Raif said, his voice rising to compete with the storm. "When we
meet again I'll repay it."

Cant shook his head. "I will not
add to your burdens, Clansman, by claiming a debt against you."

Ash watched Raif's face as he listened
to the reply. A muscle high on his cheek pulsed, and then he bowed
his head and looked away. Ash stroked Snowshoe's neck, searching for
warmth. Turning the pony into the street, she nodded her farewell to
Heritas Cant.

Ille Glaive was differently made from
Spire Vanis. As Ash trotted the pony down the street, past crumbling
stonework, slate-roofed mansions, sealed-up sewers, and lead pipes
venting steam, she began to see layers in the stone. The lower cellar
levels that were only partially visible from the street were built
from finely hewn stone that was black with soot and age. Ash saw
moons and stars carved into the risers of cellar steps and the
undersides of arches. Aboveground the stone was newer, lighter, the
walls constructed from softer, more workable sandstone. Everything
seemed to be heaped upon everything else, and buildings creaked and
listed under the weight of added stories, ring towers, and timber
bridges. In the distance the five lead-capped domes of the Lake Keep
could clearly be seen rising high above the great curtain wall of
ironstone that surrounded them. The Three Tears of Ille Glaive—the
Black Tear of the Spill, the Red Tear of Sull blood, and the Steel
Tear of Dunness Fey's sword—flew on stiff white banners from
their hoardings. Ash remembered her foster father telling her that
the Lake Keep was built around a pool of black water known as the Eye
of the Spill. The pool was said to be deeper than the lake itself,
and strange blind fishes were said to swim there.

The nearer they drew to Ille Glaive's
north wall, the more squalid the city became. Many buildings were
little more than occupied ruins.

Ash studied the caved roofs, boarded
windows, and iced-up drains with eyes that had seen such things
before. She knew what it felt like to be out on the streets, cold and
hungry and alone. A journey north along the Storm Margin was nothing
compared with that.

Quickly, before her mind turned to the
subject of Heritas Cant and all that he had said, Ash began patting
Snowshoe's neck and saying horsey things out loud. She couldn't think
about being a Reach. Not now. Not yet.

The storm darkened as they approached
the Old Sull Gate. Mounds of brown snow had been piled to either side
of the gateposts, and rows of icicles hung from the gate and its
rigging, wet and dripping like monster's teeth. Angus dismounted but
indicated that Ash should keep her seat. He appeared calm, yet Ash
saw the way his gaze flickered from the gate tower to the guards in
white mail shirts to the bowmen walking the wall.

The north gate of Ille Glaive was old
and beautifully carved from honey-colored stone. It matched neither
the color nor the style of the wall in which it was set. Unlike the
gates in Spire Vanis, it had not been designed to impress anyone with
its size and grandeur and existed simply as a thing of beauty, like
an entrance to a holy place. A landscape of gently sloping hills,
valleys, thick forests, and gorges alive with crashing water was
carved across its posts and arch.

"The clanholds," murmured
Raif.

Ash turned to look at him. Snow swirled
around his face, switching this way and that with every change of the
wind. He held Moose's reins at tension, and Ash was reminded of what
he looked like when he was drawing a bow.

"Aye," Angus said. "There's
parts of Dhoone and Blackhail and Bludd up there. The stone was cut
and carved by Sull masons. All their gates tell stories of the lands
that lie beyond."

Raif did not acknowledge what he said.
Ash watched him as they joined the thin line of people waiting to
take leave of the city. His gaze never returned to the gate.

A woman farmer with a dog and cart and
an old trapper dressed in rabbit furs that stank like all the hells
stood ahead of them in line. Two guards wearing the Three Tears at
their breasts gave them little trouble as they passed. Ash expected
Angus to be relieved when they took the gate unchallenged, yet no
part of his body relaxed.
What is he afraid of?
she
wondered as she caught him looking over his shoulder one last time.

Beyond the city walls the storm raged.
Ash's eyes and mouth filled with snow the moment the pony cleared the
gate, and she was forced to pull her fox hood so close that she
looked at the world through a filter of gray fur. The north road
stretched out ahead of her, straight as an arrow and wide as four
carts. The cityhold of Ille Glaive, with its sprawling farms, stout
outwalls, and tight little villages where every building shared walls
with another, spread across the horizon like a land made of snow.
Everything was white, even the sky. The only dark patches were
chimney stacks and smoke holes on the roofs of a thousand farms.
Angus mounted and set a brisk pace north.

Snow drove into the horses' faces all
the way. Darkness came early, moving south through the cityhold like
a second storm. The wind died along with the light, and the sudden
drop in temperature bred frost. Ash huddled in her oilskins, aware of
every gapehole, eyelet, and poorly stitched seam. Cold settled in her
chest like a disease. Every breath she exhaled caught in her hood and
turned to blue ice. Lights from roadside taverns began to look
tempting, yet Angus showed little interest in stopping. Smoke
smelling of roast meat and onions burned black blew across the road,
making Ash's mouth fill with saliva and her stomach growl. Hours
passed, yet Angus still refused to call a halt.

Ash sank into the misery of aching
thighs, numb fingers, cracked lips, and a full bladder. She took to
looking at the starless sky and wondering how long it would be before
dawn. She had already decided that Angus meant to ride through the
night.

Finally Raif spoke up, saying something
to Angus that Ash couldn't hear. Whispers passed between the two.
Angus shook his head. Raif's voice dropped dangerously low…
Ash heard him speak her name. Angus' shoulders stiffened for an
instant, yet on his very next breath he relented. Glancing over at
Ash, he said, "Aye. A short stop will do no harm." Ash
tried not to let the relief show on her face. They rode a while
longer, until they were free from the light of nearby villages and
Angus was satisfied with the density of trees along the road. Ash
smelled the sharp vinegary scent of resin as they headed for a stand
of blackstone pines. Snowshoe was delighted to be off the road and
found much to sniff at beneath the snow. Ash looked over the tops of
the pines as she waited for the pony to raise her head. The northern
horizon was dominated by a row of jagged peaks, dark shadows against
a nearly black sky.

"The Bitter Hills," Angus
said as his boots thudded into the snow. "The clanholds stand
beyond them. Ganmiddich, Bannen, and Croser lie that way."

Hearing Angus speak, Ash knew she had
been watched. Did he always mind her so closely that he could tell
where her eyes focused? She dismounted Snowshoe in silence, unwilling
to draw Angus out on the subject of clans. Something inside her knew
that Raif would not welcome it.

"On certain days if you look
northeast, you can see a light above the hills. Ganmiddich has a
tower, though I can't say as they built it, and they light fires in
the topmost chamber so the blaze can be seen throughout the North."

Ash glanced at Raif. He was down from
Moose, busy tending to the gelding's nose and mouth. He gave no
indication of having heard what Angus said, yet sound traveled well
in the makeshift hall of pines.

Angus began filling snufflebags with
oats. "Last time I saw the tower lit was when the old chief Ork
Ganmiddich died. They doused the timbers with milk of magna to make
the flames burn white."