A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2)

by J. V. Jones

  “Here,” Angus said quietly, holding his hand toward the cup. “Let me take that from you.”

  Raina shook her head with a snap. “Nay, Angus Lok. It is my clan and my cup, and I’ll keep it as she said.” Her fingers trembled as she threaded a silver hook through the horn cup’s rimhole and hooked it onto her belt. When the task was done she took a deep breath and raised her head. Every tied clansman in the fold was watching her, and her instinct was to hunker down and flee. There were currents here she didn’t fully understand. But she was wife to two chiefs, first woman in the clan, and she could live with much worse than hostile stares.

  “Angus,” she said a little too loudly. “Let me show you the north wall. The builders of the fold set a block of moonstone into the masonry and carved their kin marks upon it. The sandstone blocks are strong, but their faces quickly wear, and the builders wanted to be sure to name themselves for posterity.”

  Angus was all attention. “Indeed,” he said, as if he’d just learned the most interesting fact in all the clanholds. “Lead on.”

  She heard him fall into place behind her, and thanked him silently for his understanding. Holding her shoulders square and looking directly ahead, she crossed the length of the fold, defying the tied clansmen to find fault.

  The moonstone glowed in the darkness like a ghost trapped in the wall. Raina reached out to touch it, aware that the noise level was slowly returning to normal. She and Angus were alone here, separated from the open space of the great hall by a bloodwood stang as wide as a smoke tower. Angus made a show of squinting to interpret the kin marks carved deep into the stone. Someone had once rubbed silver leaf into the carvings, and odd lines and curves reflected light. The ranger halted when his gaze fell upon the mark of the armed bear.

  “Sevrance,” he said quietly. “Tem’s ancestors helped build this?”

  Raina nodded. “The Sevrances are one of the oldest families in the clanholds. Ned Sevrance was a table bearer for Jamie Roy.”

  Angus nodded with interest, though Raina would have bet coin on him having known that fact before. Making a tiny gesture to the fold behind her she said, “Do you know what all that was about?”

  He continued studying the kin marks, keeping his face toward the wall. “I’m sure you heard that Mace sent outriders to the western farms a few months back, urging all tied clansmen to take shelter in the Hailhold. Well, it seems a few of the outriders were a wee bit overenthusiastic about their task. Let’s call them Scarpes. Not only did these ‘Scarpes’ claim Mace had ordered a full-scale evacuation to the hold, but they—how should I put it?—aided in the evacuation process. Took horses, livestock, belt buckles, sacks of grain—anything they could rope or heft. Told the poor farmers all goods would be returned to them at the Hailhold. Only nothing but carcasses and empty sacks were returned. Now there’s a rumor going around that the farms themselves are being overrun, and that Scarpes are moving into the empty crofts and settling down for spring.”

  “Does Mace know about this?”

  Angus turned to look at her. “What do you think?”

  “He wouldn’t dare sanction it.”

  “Aye. But knowing about something and choosing to look the other way is much the same in the end.”

  Catching a spark of green in Angus’s coppery eyes, Raina wondered if this was the reason he’d brought her here.

  He executed a kind of half bow in acknowledgment of the understanding dawning on her face. “Small things like dispossessed crofters have a nasty habit of bringing clans to their knees.”

  He was right. Tied clansmen—farmers, woodsmen, traders, miners—might not swear to die for their clans, but they brought goods to the table in return for the defense of themselves and their families. It was a fact no warrior cared to admit, but a clan could survive longer without swords than scythes. Even so. It occurred to Raina that she shouldn’t have to listen to such wisdom from an outsider.

  Pulling away from the wall she said, “Well, I’d best be off now. I’ll be sure to speak to my husband when you’re gone.”

  Angus’s fingers snapped around her wrist. And she did not think, did not stop to wonder why the entire surface of her skin erupted into violently cold gooseflesh. She simply reacted. Twisting her arm against his grip, she pulled down with enough force to send the ranger stumbling forward. As her trapped hand broke free, the other came up to strike him. Angus righted himself in an instant, but he was not quick enough to stop her open hand from striking his face. The impact made a dry crack, stinging Raina’s palm and raising an immediate welt on Angus’s jaw. His gaze jumped to her face, and he did not retaliate, did not move at all.

  Raina let her hand fall awkwardly to her waist. Her heart was racing, and the gooseflesh on her arms and chest was so extreme that the entire surface of her skin felt tight. An image came to her of a woman lying amid the sword ferns and blue gorse of the Oldwood. Raina could feel the snow melting beneath the woman’s buttocks, hear the ragged gasps of breath as the man above her held down her wrists and thrust her legs apart with his knee . . .

  “Raina. Raina?”

  Angus’s voice was gently questioning. She knew she should respond to it, wanted to respond, but there was the woman in the Oldwood. Hurting. Alone.

  After a time she heard her voice say, “Angus. Forgive me. I don’t know what came over me.”

  The ranger tapped his jaw lightly. “What, this? Was nothing. My own wife warned me about my tongue. Angus, she said, when you attack a woman’s good name always be sure to duck.”

  Raina nodded stiffly. She was aware that Angus was speaking loudly for a reason, and that many ears were listening to what he said, but she couldn’t find the strength to play his game.

  She wanted to run away.

  “Here.” A rabbit-fur-covered flask was pressed into her hand. “Drink deep.”

  She did as she was told, filling her mouth with sweet scalding alcohol so pure it barely registered as fluid at all. When the liquor hit her brain it made the woman in the Oldwood recede into the distance, and she was finally free to think. Sweat drenched her back and buttocks, cold as melted snow.

  “Let’s go,” Raina murmured, making for the stairs. She’d thought the past was behind her—had forced it behind her—so why had it all come flooding back? A strange, high sound left her lips as she ran from the fold. Gods, don’t let it ruin me now.

  She found herself in the great stone dome of the entrance hall, possessing no memory of climbing the many ramps and stairs that rose toward ground level. Angus was close behind, flanking her. Biddie Byce rushed by, a basket of winter-grown carrots pressed against her chest. A group of new-sworn yearmen, Perches and Murdocks and Lyes, were sitting against the stair wall, disassembling their gear belts and scabbards for cleaning. When they spotted their chief’s wife they slowed their labors to watch her. Raina ignored them. Her gaze fell on the iron-banded clan door, and she had to fight the urge to run outside. She wanted desperately to be alone.

  “Angus Lok.”

  Mace. She didn’t need to turn toward the stair that led down to the chief’s chamber to know who stood upon it.

  “Wife.”

  He made her turn anyway, for he would not be ignored in front of clan. Mace Blackhail was dressed in an elk-suede tunic dyed black, collared with a heavy mantle of ice-wolf fur that still had the tail and leg sheaths attached. His beard and moustache had been newly trimmed, shaved narrow to match the long planes of his face. Climbing the last remaining steps to the entrance hall, he addressed himself to the ranger. “My scouts informed me you entered the Hailhold two nights back—yet you did not see fit to present yourself at my hearth?”

  Angus stood his ground behind Raina, his face bland. “Aye, well, Hail Lord, if I’d have known you had a hankering to see me wild pigs couldna have kept me away.”

  Mace’s mouth tightened. He suspected he was being made light of, and Raina knew he could not allow that in such a public place as the entrance hall. “Ranger. Enter my clan
hold one more time without my knowledge and be forewarned to watch your back. Blackhail is at war, and any intruder on my soil must be judged enemy rather than friend.”

  The yearmen by the stair wall stopped all pretense of cleaning. They were chief’s men, all of them. Red-necked Elcho Murdock had just been betrothed to some hollow-cheeked niece of Yelma Scarpe.

  Angus nodded, the blandness in his face holding firm. “I’ll be sure to remember that, Hail Lord. Watch my back. A pity no one offered such a warning to Shor Gormalin. Now that I recall, didn’t he take two quarrels in the back of his head?”

  Raina heard one of the yearmen gasp. Foolish child. Had no one taught him to school his reactions?

  Mace ignored the outburst, his attention solely upon Angus Lok. Both men were matched in height and build, though Angus carried a bit more fat. They were both swordsmen, too. And as that thought occurred to her she realized both men’s sword hands were resting on the hilts of their sheathed blades. Silently, she cursed Angus. What madness had possessed him to mention Shor Gormalin’s name?

  A second or two, no longer, was all it took for Mace Blackhail to weigh all possible outcomes. He was a clever swordsman, but he had to know that Angus Lok might better him—wasn’t he rumored to have spent two years with the Sull? And besides, what would a duel win Mace? It would only add credibility to the ranger’s outrageous claim. Shor Gormalin had been killed by a Bludd-sworn cowlman. Everyone in the clan knew it.

  Holding his gaze upon Angus Lok, Mace Blackhail commanded his yearmen. “John. Elcho. Stiggie. Graig. Escort this city man from the Hailhold and deposit him on the border. His welcome here just ran out.”

  The four yearmen scrambled to strap on their gear belts and weapon cradles. Young Graig Lye, cousin to Bludd-slain Banron, buckled his sword harness so ferociously he struck sparks. Others had entered the hall whilst the two men were speaking—a gaggle of clan maids wheeling a laundry barrow and two ancient oasters from the brewhouse who stank of yeast—and all eased back against the walls, sensing the tension in the entryway like livestock sensed a storm. At her side, Raina was aware of Angus breathing evenly, even as he shifted his weight forward onto the balls of his feet.

  Please do not fight, she willed him. You may win one-on-one, but after that you’ll die—and I don’t think I can take any more blows today.

  Perhaps Angus Lok could read minds, for slowly he eased his weight back down upon his heels. He bowed his head once toward Mace, and then to the four yearmen. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Lead on.”

  Raina’s ribcage slumped forward with relief, feeling at the same time a terrible kind of disappointment. She had wished Angus not to fight, but now that he had backed down and she saw how her husband’s lips came together in a cold, triumphant smile, she could only think, Is there no one in the clanholds who can stop him?

  She had no time for answers, for Angus was addressing her as “Lady” and bidding her a nonchalant farewell. Wordlessly, she bowed her head toward him and watched as the four yearmen moved to flank him as he made his exit. Once the clan door closed behind him, a brisk draft circled the entryway and died.

  No one moved. One of the clan maids who’d been dragging the laundry barrow hiccuped nervously. Mace’s black-and-yellow-eyed gaze found his wife. “Raina,” he said, his voice strangely gentle. “I’m sorry you had to witness that. I know he’s kin to the Sevrances, but it was necessary to remove him from the clan.”

  Raina couldn’t understand Mace’s gentleness. Was it an act of husbandly solicitude for the benefit of onlookers? Or was there something showing on her face that genuinely worried him? You were a partner to Dagro. Be one to me. The memory of his words in the chief’s chamber made her shudder, and for a moment she thought she saw that same desire writ plainly on his face. Suddenly it was all too much for her, and she made a break for the door.

  Mace’s demeanor abruptly changed, and he put out a hand to stop her.

  Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare touch me. She swerved to avoid him and, perhaps aware that he’d look foolish trying to grapple with his wife, he let her pass. That tiny victory gave her courage, and she found words springing to her mouth that she had not planned.

  “I’m going to see Angus off. His wife embroidered a tunic especially for Drey, and I’m not letting him come all this way and not deliver it.” She hardly knew where the lies came from, but as soon as she spoke them she felt their rightness. Let him try to challenge her over them. Let him try.

  Mace watched her carefully for a moment, aware that he too was being watched. “There’s no need for you to go to the stables. One of the girls can retrieve it.”

  But Raina was ready for him. “I don’t think so, husband,” she said briskly, her hands already pushing the quarter-ton clan door into motion. “Darra Lok’s embroidery is known throughout the north, and I’m not going to have it passed from hand to hand without giving proper thanks.”

  The clan maids, bless them, nodded in agreement and understanding. There wasn’t a woman in the clanholds who didn’t value beautiful needlework. Mace saw this and must have realized he was in danger of looking foolish. A clan chief never concerned himself with women’s affairs.

  He waved a hand toward the door. “Go, then.”

  She finished pulling the oak door in its oiled track, all the time knowing what he would say next and waiting to hear it.

  “But, wife,” he warned when the door’s motion was complete. “Such a piece of work as this tunic . . . I’d like to see it for myself. Bring it to me when you’re done.”

  Raina stepped outside. “I’ll be happy to—tomorrow, when it’s been properly pressed and aired.” And once I’ve raced upstairs to the widows’ hearth and begged Merritt Ganlow and her widow-wives to stay up all night embroidering something for me. Thank the gods Mace was a typical clansman and wouldn’t be able to tell clan-sewn pieces from city ones.

  Almost dizzy with satisfaction, Raina hurried to the stables. She had to caution herself not to skip like a girl.

  By the time the short walk was complete, her euphoria had drained away, leaving her feeling vulnerable and shaky. The early sunshine had gone, closed off by swift-moving clouds, and the air was misty with rotting ice. Spikes of new greenery—snowdrops, by the look of them—had pushed through the slush piled to either side of the stable’s double doors. Raina supposed that meant spring was here, and could find nothing in her that was glad.

  Inside the stable all was dim and warm, the air kept well above freezing by Jebb Onnacre’s carefully tended safe-lamps. It was easy to tell which box held Angus Lok’s mount, for six men were gathered around the half-gate, admiring the beast within. Four of them were the yearmen sent to escort the ranger off Blackhail territory, and the others were Angus himself and Orwin Shank.

  The wealthy clan overlord was speaking, a red and ax-bitten hand resting on the horse’s neck. “Aye, it’s a pity he’s gelded. Could have charged the gods’ own eyeballs for stud.”

  “I heard the Sull cut any horse that leaves their heart fires,” sniped Elcho Murdock. “Won’t have outsiders breeding down their stock.”

  “Is that so?” Angus said mildly. “An expert in our midst and I didn’t know it.”

  Elcho, who was small-eyed and bulb-nosed like his grandfather, suspected an insult but couldn’t prove it, and scowled childishly. Young Graig Lye, who was brighter by far but no more self-restrained, sniggered at him under his breath.

  “Gentlemen,” Angus said, ignoring the obvious signs of their youth. “I wonder if you’d do me the honor of waiting for me outside whilst I talk to your chief’s fair wife?”

  Until he spoke, Raina had thought her entrance had passed unmarked. She should have known better. It was the treader fly again, sensing the slightest ripple on the water.

  Elcho puffed out a disbelieving breath. “I don’t think so, ranger. What if you mount your horse and escape us?”

  “Then I’d be off your hands and away from your clanhold just as your chief comman
ded.”

  Raina had to smile at the befuddled looks on the yearmen’s faces. Angus was tying them up in knots. Luckily, Orwin Shank stepped in before the poor lads could be sold a dead horse. “You boys run along outside. I’ll stand second to the ranger’s word.”

  Orwin Shank was father to four living sons and one daughter. He was the greatest landholder in the clan and keeper of the most gold. He kept a stable of thirty horses and more sheep than there were days in winter. He’d fought at the Griefbringer’s back at Middlegorge and lost two grown sons to Bludd: no man in the clan was worthy of more respect. Even young, untested yearmen knew better than to doubt him.

  Raina smiled her thanks at the aging axman as the four yearmen filed out through the stable door.

  “ ’Twas nothing, Raina,” he replied brusquely. “If two people can’t speak in private without watchers then what sort of clan are we making?” His hazel-eyed stare seemed to challenge her. “I’ll be waiting over there by the pump. Speak quiet now, for there’s no such thing as trying not to overhear.”

  She watched him cross to the far side of the stable wall and begin drawing water to wet his face from the crank-pump. Behind her, she was aware of Angus breathing lightly, waiting for her to speak. Now that she was here and had her way, she was no longer sure of her motives.

  First things first. “Angus,” she said, turning to him. “You must give me a package, one large enough to hold a man’s tunic.”

  He did not ask for an explanation, merely leaned forward to search his leather saddlebags that had been hooked over the stall door. The beautiful Sull horse, his coat as dark and glossy as tree syrup, popped his head over the half-gate to watch. Raina scratched him gently on the nose as Angus laid a smooth, linen-wrapped package at her feet.

  She did not thank him. Quite suddenly she knew they were about to speak treason of the chief. She took a breath. “Why did you infer Mace had something to do with Shor Gormalin’s death? Everyone knows he was killed by a Bludd cowlman.”