A Sword From Red Ice (76 page)

Raif looked at the clouds. Without meaning to,
Yiselle No Knife had given him information. "Find us a path
east," Raif said, standing, "any further north and we could
lapse into the Want."

Beating ice and pine needles from their gear, they
prepared to break camp and head into land ruled by the Sull.

Mistakes

"Has the bruise gone?" Raina Blackhail
asked Anwyn Bird, angling her face toward the light.

The clan matron folded her arms over the chest and
looked critically at all of Raina, not just the bruised section of
skin on her cheek. "It's yellow."

Raina put out a hand toward her. "Do not say
it, Anny. Who could I go running to?"

"Plenty. You could have started with Orwin
Shank."

"His son has just died. How can I put another
burden upon him?"

"Corbie Meese then."

"He has lost friends and comrades. His wife
has still not risen from her confinement."

Anwyn looked fit to explode. High color flooded
her face. "You cannot let Stannig Beade get away with this. You
must speak up."

"And say what?" Raina cried. "The
clan guide slapped me? He will deny it. He'll bring that sly girl in
as a witness and she will confirm his story that I fainted and hit my
head against the door." As she was speaking Raina thought she
heard a sound coming from behind one of the loom tables, but was too
agitated to fully register it. Probably a settling pedal. "I
will not be believed. People will pity me. My word will no longer be
relied upon. I will be lessened."

"Better lessened than dead."

The two women faced each other, shaking. They were
standing in the widows' wall alone. Anwyn had chased off everyone
earlier and then gone to fetch Raina, pulling her away from the task
of packing a war-supply cart alongside other clan wives.

The hearthstone the room was named for was black
with creosote and soot. A meager fire burned deep in the grate, and
if no one tended it soon it would go out. There were logs enough in
the firepile that lay heaped against one side of the chimney wall,
but no one had bothered to add any in several hours. Not all of the
shutters had been opened either and the light was patchy and gray.
Less than twenty days the Scarpes had occupied this hearth—in
direct defiance of the widows' wishes—and in that short time
they had turned it from the prettiest and brightest chamber in the
Hailhouse into a hovel. Handprints and filth on the distemper walls,
ring-shaped burns on the floorboards where they'd set their
cookstoves, a shutter left open so the snow came in and rotted the
plaster, dog shit, food spills, smoke damage: the list went on.
Someone had even stolen the big iron candleholder that had been
suspended on a chain from the ceiling. Women looming and carding
needed good light to work by in the winter months, and Brog Widdie
had wrought that candleholder to relieve their eyes. No wonder the
widows were reluctant to come back. Beade had ordered the worktables,
looms, racks, embroidery hoops, drum carders and benches returned to
their original places but he could not order the widows to sit at
them and work.

Not yet anyway. Raina pushed her lips together.
She knew at some point she would have to arrange the proper cleanup
and retempering of the chamber, but right now she didn't have the
strength necessary for issuing the dozens of orders needed to carry
it out. Right now she wanted to keep her head low and exist in peace.

And she did not want Anwyn accosting her and
trying to force her into action. It was easy for the clan matron; the
weight she bore was less. She could retire to her kitchen, and have
no one inspect, criticize, or challenge her as she carried out her
work. Chief's wife was different. Every time she, Raina Blackhail,
walked through the roundhouse gazes followed her, judging her every
move, storing mistakes for malicious gossip, disapproving, pleading,
snooping.

Muscles beneath Anwyn's large round face set into
place as she regarded Raina. "I will give you until supper
tonight," she said, "to tell Orwin Shank in person what
Stannig Beade did to you. If that hour passes without him knowing, I
will visit him myself and tell him what you told me."

Raina inhaled sharply. Anwyn Bird could be hard as
stone. Over twenty people worked in her kitchen and she was capable
of bullying every one of them. Now she wants to bully me. Why did she
push so much? What made her so sure she was right? Anwyn had not
stood in front of the entire clan and watched as they willingly
believed lies. All those months ago in the greathearth Mace Blackhail
had spun the tale of how he and his foster mother had succumbed to
mutual lust in the Oldwood. Five hundred warriors had drunk up this
outrageous lie.

Truth. Untruth. Didn't Anwyn know that the only
thing that mattered in these circumstances was who could sound the
most plausible? Stannig Beade was clan guide, practiced in the arts
of oratory. He would know how to make his account seem reasonable.
Poor Raina. She was upset and I offered her a cup of malt. She drank
it a little too quickly—you know how women are around hard
liquor—and when she rose to leave she cried out in grief and
fainted right by the door. Her cheek caught the iron bolt on the way
down, isn't that so, Jani?

Raina gazed into Anwyn's dark blue eyes and
questioned why she did this. A memory of many moons back came to her,
of a package slipped from Angus Lok's hand into Anwyn's belt while
neither thought Raina was watching. It had happened in the little
dairy shed at midwinter. Raina had known Angus Lok nearly as long as
she had lived at Blackhail. Always when he came to visit he stirred
things up. I will be chief, Raina had declared not long after he had
last departed. He had told her things, she remembered. Stories of how
Mace was treating his tied clansmen—things that only Hailsman
should have known.

Raina wondered if Anwyn was in cahoots with the
ranger. Angus had not hidden his dislike of Mace Blackhail and Clan
Scarpe. Perhaps he and Anwyn had grown weary of Raina's inaction.
Perhaps they hoped to force conflict and oust Beade.

Or perhaps Anwyn was just worried about a friend.
Raina searched her face. "Do not push me, Anny. There's no
telling where it could lead."

Anwyn Bird did not soften. Her arms remained
clamped to her chest. "Anywhere is better than here. You should
have seen yourself the other night—you could barely speak you
were so afraid. And yes, it was just a bruise and bruises heal. But
what about next time? When a man shows himself capable of violence it
is seldom the end of it. He has cowed you, Raina. Frightened you and
made you shrink back. If you step out of line he will do it again.
Stannig Beade is no clan guide and must be shown as such. We are
many. We can send him back to Scarpe."

Almost Anwyn won her over, but the memory of what
had happened in the greathearth was too raw. Stannig Beade, Mace
Blackhail: Scarpes had sharp tongues. You could not win against them
in spoken battle. It was true Hailsmen still outnumbered Scarpes in
this house, but for clansmen to back the ousting of Beade they needed
to believe Raina's version of events. Raina did not think she had the
skills to persuade them. Certainly she had no evidence.

Anwyn saw the answer on her face. "After
supper tonight I will go see Orwin Shank."

Raina felt prickles of tears behind her eyes and
did not know why. She said, "You will not be rid of Beade so
easily."

"Do not be so sure." The words were
spoken so fiercely they created their own sense of gravity. Raina
felt her heart and mind pull toward them, but stood firm. Having
issued them Anwyn herself seemed incapable of further speech.
Nodding with satisfaction, she turned on her heels and left.

Raina waited for herself to relax; waited but the
sensation did not come. She looked around the widows' wall, at the
carelessly placed looms and benches, the Scarpe filth. I should do
something about cleaning this place up. The new widows deserve
better. She did not want to be here though, and followed Anwyn's
tracks to the door. Random thoughts were firing in her head. She
wondered what use a great big cast-iron candleholder was to anyone
without a high-ceilinged chamber to hang it. She worried she had
parted badly with Anwyn.

As she headed downstairs it occurred to her that
the least she could have done was open all the shutters in the
widows' hearth and let in some fresh air to drive out the stench of
Scarpe. What had Stannig Beade told her? "Restrict your
activities to caring for the bereaved and the sick"? Raina
slowed her descent. He had meant to offend her with small work and
she had allowed herself be offended. Since when had caring for the
widows of slain warriors become offensive to her? Had she become too
proud? Unsure of the answer, she decided to go back and throw open
the shutters. Maybe she would move some of the looms to their proper
places. They were complicated arrays of harness and [garbled], but
generally more air than wood. A strong woman could push them into
motion. Feeling her thoughts begin to settle, she headed up the
stairs.

And met Jani Gaylo coming down. Instantly, Raina
remembered the noise behind the corner loom. Little mice with
weasel's tails. Stepping into the center of the stone step, she
forced the red-haired maid to walk around her. Raina stared at her,
waiting for the girl to meet her eye, but Jani Gaylo kept her pretty
head tucked low as she passed.

Oh gods. Was she up there, listening?

Raina continued climbing the stairs, but her sense
of purpose had gone. What had she and Anwyn said? Things that did not
bear overhearing by anyone in this clan. Uneasy, she let herself
into the widows' wall. No sign of any disturbance. But would there
be? Quickly she unhooked the closed shutters and pushed them open.
The outside air was cold and still, crisp with frost. When she
reached the corner loom, she halted. It was one of the large upright
frames and a panel of bright blue wool was nearly completed on the
harness. That was where Jani Gaylo could have hidden, behind that
taut yard of cloth.

Abruptly, Raina turned away. She would not think
about it anymore. What was the point? I'll go and saddle Mercy. Get
away from this unsafe house.

Hurrying down the stairs she pretended to be busy,
waving away those who hailed her and frowning in a preoccupied manner
as if she were thinking about hop toasting, milk churning or some
other household task. Things had changed since news had arrived from
Ganmiddich, and the house was subdued. Men got a little drunker at
night. Women had trouble applying themselves to everyday work and
would sit morosely and chat. Everyone was waiting on more news. Raina
had heard a rumor that Stannig Beade had begun to cut hearts from the
new Hailstone.

As she crossed the strange gods-charged space of
the east hall, she realized that she had abandoned her task of
loading the supply wagon. Orwin Shank had arranged for a cart to be
sent south with an armed escort, and Merritt Ganlow and Raina had
been in charge of filling it with food, ale, blankets and other home
comforts for the Hail armies camped north of Ganmiddich. Merritt
would not be pleased. As far as the head widow was concerned, Raina
could barely do anything right these days.

Raina suspected she had a point. Ever since
Stannig Beade had hit her she had not been able to think clearly. Her
attention jumped from one thing to another like a bouncing ball, and
she did not like to be alone inside in the house. Jittery was the
word she would use to describe herself. It was the first time she had
ever felt such a way in her life.

She did not stop to admire the newly completed
arch that led east from the roundhouse. The wall scaffolding was in
the process of being reconfigured to support the building of the
guidehouse and the east ward. Work crews were taking their afternoon
break, and men were sitting on chunks of rock and upturned lime
barrels, gnawing on bird bones and drinking foamy brown ale. Longhead
was the only one still working. The head keep was squatting on a
cracked paving stone, drawing a line in chalk.

"Raina."

She was surprised to hear him call her name, and
considered pretending not to hear him. The memory of their last
meeting together in the hayloft was not a good one. Longhead had
admitted to letting himself be influenced by Stannig Beade. The
guide had warned the head keep that Raina might start fussing if she
were told about the plans for the new ward. And Longhead had lapped
it up. It was a kind of betrayal, that setting aside of all the years
they'd spent working together for the good of this house. If anyone
should have given her the benefit of the doubt it should have been
Longhead.

Halting before him, she was cool. "I have not
much time."

The head keep rose to standing. He was dressed in
his usual attire of a leather work apron over burlap pants and a
brown wool shirt. Chalk from his fingers was transferred to his
forehead as he wiped the hair from his eyes. "Where you off to?"

Raina thought the question impertinent. "I
have work in the stables," she lied.

"I'll walk a ways with you."

"Very well," she agreed huffily,
realizing she had misjudged the nature of his question. Longhead did
not query where she went or what she did. He just wanted to talk to
her alone.

If the head keep had noticed her agitation, he
made no show of it, and guided her between piles of logs, cut stones
and lime barrels with respectful attention, touching her arm lightly
to prevent her from stepping into puddles of tar and gray sludge.
Snow had been cleared to a distance of thirty feet around the
roundhouse, and only when they had reached the end of the clearing
did Longhead speak.

"You told me I should inform you when Stannig
Beade wants things done in the house," he said, wasting no time
on small talk, "and I think perhaps you were right."