by J. V. Jones
That was how Bram had spent most of those free days after Guy Morloch and Jordie Sarson had left him; riding and being watchful, a hawk and a spider.
He wished he knew more about the histories. Every day he passed lengths of standing wall, broken bits of fortifications, paved roads gone to seed, burned-out barns, dismantled river dams, ancient way markers, sealed wells, burial mounds. Ruins, all of them. Whenever he spotted something interesting he stopped to inspect it, brushing away moss or snow, dead leaves or cobwebs: whatever had accumulated over time. Occasionally he spied faint signs scribed into the stone, but mostly the surfaces were blank. Markings had been worn away, dissolved by rain and tannins, and scoured by the wind. History had been lost. Who had built the perfectly placed dam on the Fleece? And who had destroyed it?
That was the recurring theme of the ruins, Bram had noticed. Something built, then destroyed. Thinking about it made him restless. Who would know such things? Who could tell him what had happened in the past?
Angus Lok, the ranger. He would know.
Bram had lost a whole day to the ruins he’d found in the north-facing lee of a hill in the pinelands above the Flow. Something circular—a watchtower, granary or small fort—had once stood in the shadows thrown by the hill’s steep ridges. Something looking north. Scrambling over the shattered remains of cornerstones, footing blocks and lintels, Bram wondered who had erected this here and why. The nearest clanhold was Wellhouse. Its roundhouse was built from traprock. This structure had been built from hard and lustrous bluestone. Although he looked for identifying markers in the stone, Bram could find nothing to confirm his secret hope. If the structure had been built by the Sull, its ruins were keeping that knowledge to themselves.
That night he made camp against the small section of wall that was still standing. And dreamed of secrets and the Sull.
The next day he and Gabbie arrived at the Easterly Flow. The largest river in the clanholds had swollen above its banks and its waters were murky and swift. To the east Wellhouse maintained a crossing and to the west Dhoone commanded the Cinch, a narrow river gorge between two cliffs that could be strung with ropes to form a bridge. Most people crossed by boat; it was the horses that were a problem. Bram walked the stallion east along the shore, aware as he did so that he was heading away from Castlemilk. The Milkhouse now lay directly south of him. It was difficult to put his heart into finding a crossing. Gabbie was not a horse who took well to water and it was easy to say, He’s not going to swim across so I might as well take the crossing at Wellhouse. Bram knew it for a lie. At some point during the journey Gabbie had become his horse, not Guy’s, and if forced he would take the crossing for his master.
They wasted a day traveling to Wellhouse and paid a silver coin for the crossing. Bram had avoided the roundhouse and steered clear of Wellmen but he could not evade their stares. All knew him as a Dhoonesman and all were greedy for news of their sworn clan. The name Robbie Dun Dhoone was on everyone’s lips, spoken in hushed tones, with fear. By now word had spread about Skinner Dhoone’s crushing defeat at the Withyhouse. Rumor had it that Robbie Dun Dhoone had lured his fellow clansmen to their deaths. Little did the Wellmen realize that the slight, dark-haired youth who rode through their clanhold at dusk had been the one Robbie had sent to Skinner to set the trap.
Robbie didn’t intend for Skinner and his men to die, Bram repeated to himself stubbornly. He just wanted to insure that Skinner didn’t steal a march on the Dhoonehouse, so fooled Skinner into attacking Withy instead of Dhoone.
After the crossing at Wellhouse Bram wasted a second day heading south when he should have turned west. The land south of the Flow was old and wild and there were parts that had been lost to clan. Ancient forests of dead and dying trees formed impenetrable masses known as the Ruinwoods. Keep to the trails: that was the prevailing clannish wisdom concerning the Ruinwoods. Bram tried to adhere to it, but sometimes the temptation to explore long-abandoned cabins half-glimpsed through the trees was too much. Curiosity hadn’t killed him, but he’d gotten lost, had his right pant leg ripped open by a blackthorn, stepped knee-deep into a sinkhole filled with wood tar and collected enough moose ticks to keep him busy with a handknife through the night. Often he saw deer and sometimes bears. One time Gabbie had shied and Bram couldn’t understand why until he spied fresh snagcat tracks in the mud. From the looks of the prints it was a big male. And it was close, because Gabbie had either seen or smelled it.
“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 milkstone. 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 fall? 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 groundfloor of the Milkhouse had been built as 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 cl
oth. 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’a new one to me.” More laughter followed, and this time 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.
“Set 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 groundfloor 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 leadin
g 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: stones must have 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.”
