A Sword From Red Ice (41 page)

"Make a lot of noise." Bram could not
recall who had given him that particular nugget of information, but
it sounded good to him and he began to half shout, half sing the
Dhoone boast while striking the handle of his sword against Guy
Morloch's fine pewter tippler.

Not long after that Bram decided to head west. It
was time. Castlemilk was owed Bram Cormac.

He had miscalculated and headed too far south, so
now he had to cross the Milk. Poor Gabbie, three rivers and he had to
cross every one of them. River crossings, bears and snagcats: it
probably didn't get much worse for a horse.

Luckily the Milk was calm. Spring thaw did not
affect it in the same way as other rivers. Its waters ran white, not
high. Legend had it that the Milk ran through a gorge where the Sull
had once mined milk-stone. No living clansmen knew if this were true
or not as none had managed to penetrate the tangle of Ruinwoods
through which the Milk flowed. "Why can't someone simply pole
upstream?" Bram had asked Guy Morloch once. Guy had tutted in
disgust at Bram's ignorance. "Have you ever tried poling up a
river fell? You know what happens? You get wet."

Bram shook away the memory of Guy's unpleasant
laughter. While he was standing and thinking by the rivershore a full
moon had risen above the Milkhouse. It was a heartbreakingly
beautiful sight; the pearl dome of the roundhouse beneath a red moon.
Bram clicked his, tongue for the horse. "C'mon, Gabbie, let's
see if we can wake some Milkmen and get you some hay."

It was strange to Bram that he could arrive at the
door of the Milkhouse unchallenged by guards. Yet just as he was
about to rap on the oyster-glazed wood, the door swung open, and he
realized that unchallenged and unwatched were different things. A big
hard-bitten Milkman with shorn gray hair and tattoos tacked along the
muscle lines of his bare arms greeted Bram. "You Robbie's kin?"

Bram nodded, surprised that he was both known and
expected. The Milk warrior held a fiercely burning kerosene torch and
Bram was startled by how close the man let the flames get to his
skin.

Looking over Bram's shoulder, he nodded, "I
see you've brought one of our horses back. Leave him there. I'll send
a groom."

Of course, Gabbie was Guy Morloch's horse and Guy
was a Castleman. Or had been.

"Inside now," the warrior said, yanking
his chin back to indicate the roundhouse's interior. "No one'll
see you tonight. I'll get you sorted with food and cotting."

Bram followed the man inside. It did not take much
light to illuminate the small horn-shaped entrance hall, just a few
covered candles suspended on chains from the walls. Milkstone was a
strange thing. In the day it seemed to store the light; in the night
it gave it back. Bram had little time for wonder, for already the
warrior had disappeared around a corner and Bram knew that if he
didn't follow closely he'd be lost. The ground floor of the Milkhouse
had been built as a maze to confuse enemies, and to the untrained
eye every turn and corridor looked the same. He had been here before,
on the night his brother had negotiated for manpower with Wrayan
Castlemilk, the Milk chief, but it still looked new to him. Somewhere
on this floor he knew there must be halls and chambers but all he saw
was endless corridors and a single white door.

The warrior led him through the roundhouse and
then out the other side to a kitchen block that had been built on to
the exterior wall. A half-dozen long oak tables were laid side by
side with plank benches running between them. About a third of them
were occupied by Castlemen, women and children, eating supper,
rolling dice, drinking beer, shining armor, honing blades and
stitching cloth. Mothers were braiding their children's hair, talking
with mouths full of pins to other mothers. Some were coaxing babies
to eat spoons of lumpy oat mush. A handful of clan maids were sitting
prettily, buffing their fingernails with raw felt and popping stars
of sugared anise between discreetly stained lips. All stopped what
they were doing to turn and look at Bram.

"For Ione's sake! It's Robbie's brother
alright. You've had a good look now get back to . . . your—"
words failed the warrior accompanying Bram and he made an
all-inclusive gesture with his big, muscled arm, "dooderlings."

Laugher erupted from the table containing the
Castlemen warriors. "Dooderlings, Pol?" chipped up some
large, grizzled hatchetman, "that's new one to me." More
laughter followed, and this time the women and children joined in.

Pol glared back; he didn't seem especially
annoyed. "C'mon, boy," he said to Bram. "Supper. Set
yourself down over there and I'll see what cook can manage."

Bram did just that, walking past the table of clan
maids to the place at the back indicated by Pol. His cheeks were hot
and he felt a bit dazed by all the life spread out before him. It had
been a long time since he'd been in an informal kitchen hall like
this one, and the presence of women befuddled him. One of the maids,
a round-faced girl with raven-dark hair, shot out a hand and poked
his leg as he passed. High, pretty laugher followed. Bram reckoned
she must have done it on a dare.

Bram found his place and sat. When he looked back
at the clan maids he found them all staring at him. With little
titters of delighted embarrassment they looked away.

"Here you go." Pol slid a wooden board
in front of Bram. "It's fry night. We're in luck."

Fried radishes, fried bread and rabbit fried in
breadcrumbs were piled high in two bowls. Pol took the largest for
himself and began to eat. Bram, suddenly realizing how hungry he was
and how little he had consumed these past seven days, did likewise.
The food was good and hot and plain. Watered ale helped it down.

As Bram was sucking on the last of the rabbit
bones, a Castleman detached himself from the group at the far table
and walked over toward them. It was the head warrior, Wrayan
Castlemilk's right hand; Bram recognized him from the night in the
Brume Hall. Bram put down the bone and stood to greet him. Such a man
was due respect. "Sit down now," the warrior said evenly.
He was of middle height and middle age, and he was powerful around
the chest and beginning to loosen in the gut. A vial containing his
measure of Milkstone suspended in water hung from a waxed string
around his neck. "I'm Harald Mawl and on behalf of my chief I
welcome you, Bram Cormac son of Mabb, to this clan."

Bram's throat tightened; he wasn't sure why. The
head warrior of Castlemilk stood before him and he didn't want to
make a mistake. With a small cough, he replied, "I thank you,
Harald Mawl. Castlemilk is the clan that walks swords and I am glad
to have come." Harald nodded once, gruff but satisfied, and then
turned with some formality and walked away.

"C'mon," Pol said, standing. "Let's
find you a cot for the night." Bram was led back into the dome
of the roundhouse. The clan maids were quiet as he left. After
climbing a narrow flight of stairs and walking along a circular
gallery that was open to the hall below, Pol halted and nodded his
head toward a plain white door. "Chief expects you at dawn,"
he said in parting.

For a moment Bram just stood and looked at the
door. The wood was fine-grained birch stained with lime. A pull ring
forged from powdered iron was fixed to the wood by a fox-head plate.
The White Fox of Castlemilk. Pulling the ring back he discovered a
tiny fan-shaped cell with a wooden sleeping box laid with a thin
mattress and two goatskins. A single covered candle burned on the
near wall, and the only other items in the room were a filled water
pitcher and leather bucket. Bram entered and closed the door. As he
sat on the bed he wondered if feeling glad to be alone was a
character flaw.

After spitting on his fingers he reached toward
the candle. And then killed the light. He thought he'd better try and
sleep, but his words to Harald Mawl worried him and he hoped he
hadn't spoken a lie. I am glad to have come. Yet Bram wasn't sure how
he felt. Arriving he had expected . . . less. He had not anticipated
this living, breathing clan. When he had spent time here during the
winter it had been at the Tower on the Milk, a league to the east.
Outfitted as a makeshift barracks, the broken tower had been far
removed from the warmth and vibrancy of the Milkhouse. And Wrayan
Castlemilk had shrewdly limited the Dhoonesmen's access to her
hearth.

Bram pulled the goatskins all the way up to his
chin. They were old and no longer smelled of goats, just dust. As he
lay there, looking out, he realized it wasn't wholly dark. The
milkstone glowed. He fell asleep, and for once he did not dream about
his brother Robbie. Just the milkstone.

He awoke to the strange thuds and calls of a
foreign clan. Close by a door was shut with force. Someone shouted,
"Blade court at dawn!" Someone else shouted back, "Go
away and let me sleep!"

Bram rose and scrubbed the sleep from his eyes.
His possessions were in Gabbie's saddlebags, so he couldn't do much
about his hair, clothes or teeth. Plucking at the front panel of his
tunic, he brought it to his nose and sniffed. Not good. And today he
had to meet a chief. Drastic action was called for. Lifting the water
pitcher high, he emptied its contents over his head. It felt cold
and good. Maybe it would help with the smell.

After he aired the goatskins and relieved himself
Bram headed downstairs to find the Milk chief. Clanfolk were up and
about, sweeping corridors, dousing torches, chasing children,
carrying buckets of fresh water up through the house and slop buckets
down to the river, buckling armor as they raced toward weapons
practice and hauling packs as they made their way to the stables.
Most people ignored Bram, though one or two glanced at his blue
cloak. Last night as Pol was showing him to his cell, Bram had made
sure to memorize the route. It was an easy thing for him, for once he
saw something he seldom forgot it, and he had no problem finding his
way back to the kitchen. From there he headed left toward the
entrance hall. Outside the sun was rising, and he quickly learned how
to orient himself in the maze that formed the ground floor of the
Milkhouse. Exterior walls appeared brighter to the eye than interior,
dividing walls. It was a fact that wouldn't do him any good at night,
he realized, but was surprisingly useful at dawn when you knew the
sunlight was coming in from the east.

The Oyster Doors were flung wide open and a stiff
breezing was blowing off the Milk. A crew of swordsmen had gathered
on the wide steps outside the entrance hall and Bram looked to see if
one of them might be Pol. They were big men, with graying hair and
deeply lined faces, their bodies toughened by decades of hard work.
Some were wearing cloaks pieced together from white fox pelts and
others had fox-head brooches fastened at their throats. All carried
the one-handed fighting swords Castlemilk was known for, the curved
knuckleguards and finger rings clearly visible above the tops of
their scabbards.

Unable to locate Pol, Bram asked the nearest
swordsman where he might find the chief. The man was sitting with his
back against the doorframe, picking gravel from the sole of his boot.
He did not look up as he said, "Chief's out back, paying her
respects."

Bram hiked over the man's legs and went outside.
Sunlight glinting off the river dazzled him and it took a moment for
his eyesight to clear.

The white sand on the landing beach was blowing
across the grass and onto the gravel road that led from the river to
the roundhouse. On the far shore, hemlocks and black spruce murmured
as they moved in the wind. Turning his back on the dark and glossy
trees, Bram headed up the path that ran along the roundhouse's
exterior wall. He could feel his hair drying as he walked.

When he rounded the rear quadrant of the Milkhouse
he spied Wrayan Castlemilk, the Milk chief, in the distance, standing
alone. A quarter-league north of the path, beyond the orderly beds of
the kitchen gardens, the hard standings, training courts, eel tanks,
pigsties and cattle pens lay a large, white-walled enclosure. The
gate leading to the enclosure was open and Wrayan Castlemilk stood
just beyond the threshold with her back to the roundhouse. Although
the wind was still high, her silver cloak did not move: stone's dust
had been sewn into the hem.

Muscles in Bram's stomach loosened. He had heard
of Castlemilk's gravepool and wondered if it was proper to approach
it. The sheen of water was clearly visible on either side of Wrayan
Castlemilk, and as Bram watched she knelt down and leaned forward. He
continued walking toward the pool, curious and cautious, passing a
children's court that had been colored with orange and blue chalk,
and a mulched and caned vegetable bed, before coming to a halt thirty
paces before the wall.

Unlike the roundhouse, the wall enclosing the
gravepool was built from simple baked bricks, not milkstone and it
had not aged well. Green mold grew at the base and mortar had worn
away leaving deep cracks around the bricks. One of the gateposts was
listing, and the gate itself had been hastily stained with the same
matte limewash as the wall. A fox head, deeply carved into the wood,
was its only decoration.

Beyond the gate, Wrayan Castlemilk rose to her
feet and brushed dirt from her cloak. Her right hand glistened with
water. Turning, she saw Bram. With a small crook of her wrist she
beckoned him forward and then waited, motionless, as he approached.

"Welcome," she said once he had come to
a halt. "I had expected you sooner."

Bram's face flushed with blood, and he was about
to apologize when he remembered his brother Robbie's contempt for
people who tried to explain their actions. A king has no use for
sorry.

Wrayan Castlemilk watched Bram, her brown eyes
shrewd and thoughtful. She was the second-longest-reigning chief in
the clanholds and had ruled Castlemilk for nearly thirty years. Bram
could not guess how old she was. Her face was unlined, though her
waist-length braid was equal parts red and gray. "Our guide,
Drouse Ogmore, is acquainted with Robbie's new guide at Dhoone. Both
men keep birds, in the manner of the old clans, and it is not unknown
for messages to pass between them." The chief raised a cool
eyebrow. "So if a boy was to leave Dhoone for Castlemilk and
arrive ten days late Drouse, and therefore I, might know it."