by J. V. Jones
Raif smiled at the thought of Addie’s conversation with the lamb brothers. Both parties had acted well. The camp was on the far side of one of the western hills bordering the lake. If he wanted to, if either Addie or one of the mules would carry him, he could travel the short distance to the wooded ridge and look down upon the Red Ice.
He never would. Addie, who was wise about many things, had been wisest about this. The ice was slowly melting, and the lamb brothers were out upon it, doing whatever they needed to do to release the souls of their dead. Things were being burned, he knew that much. Even when he had been unconscious he smelled the meaty smoke.
He had lost nine days of his life. The time was gone and he had nothing but the memories of nightmares to show for it. The first time he could recall waking was yesterday morning. He’d heard blue jays calling. Ornery, mad-dog birds, that’s what Tem always called. Raif seemed to recall some incident involving Da, some strips of cured elk, and a pair of jays. It was the pleasure of reconstructing the event—Was Da actually curing the meat himself? Had the first bird distracted him while the other sneaked up to the fire rack? And had the fire really been burning?—that had finally awakened him. He had mistaken his thoughts for a real world.
Addie and then Tallal had attended him. They treated him with a kind of concerned awe, as if they were equally amazed and worried by his recovery. Raif supposed he might feel the same way himself if he were in their shoes. Addie had fussed himself into a state and then left. The lamb brother had been more composed. And efficient. Washing and doctoring had been done. Tallal’s long brown fingers had been careful as they touched Raif’s back and the livid purple burn on his chest.
Raif looked at the burn and realized he knew its shape. “The stormglass.”
Tallal had nodded once, a movement close to a bow. He was wearing his hood and veil so that only his dark eyes with their bluish eye whites showed. “It drew the lightning. This lamb brother believes that when the lightning touched the stormglass it started a stalled heart.”
Raif had lain there, remembering things he had no desire to remember. Dead fingers clutching a sword. Armor raised into brutal ridges. The inhuman forms of the Endlords. What he could not recall was what had happened after he pulled the sword from the ice.
“You wore the glass against your heart.”
Had he? If it was so it was not by design. He’d been hanging on by sheer luck there.
“The glass called us.” Tallal’s expression seemed gentle. “We came.”
Raif thought of the dam of mist, of all that lay behind it. “How long?”
Tallal touched each black dot on the bridge of his nose. “The Want is a desert of many mysteries. The lamb brothers know few of them. The stormglass called as we lay down our mats for Alash, the evening prayer. One of our brothers noted that a sickle moon appeared in the sky at the same moment. That moon stayed with us through the journey, and before it set we found you and the One Who Knows Sheep on the ice.”
Addie. The thought of the cragsman coming to find him, having to walk across the landscape of raised and frozen corpses and shattered ice, stirred Raif deeply. He would never know what the cragsman had found, never understand what it cost him to approach the burned and lifeless body that belonged to his friend.
Raif knew he owed Addie Gunn. There didn’t seem much chance of paying back a debt like that. You just had to live with it.
He was less sure what he owed to the lamb brothers. They had opened up his shoulder and drawn out the Shatan Maer’s claw. It had been the elder brother, not Tallal, who had done the work. Raif was glad he had been asleep. Addie had told him that he had lain on his stomach for three days while the strange and unstable remains of shadowflesh were placed on the oozing wound. Shadow drew shadow. The Unmade had been frozen in the lake too. Their flesh corrupted quickly as it thawed, smoking to nothing like a pure form of fuel. Addie said the brothers had farmed a single corpse for the poultice, moderating its temperature by exposing the carcass to sunlight or covering it with lake ice and skins. New strips were cut and laid every hour. The cragsman had been eager to tell more, but Raif did not want to hear it. At some point in the story the leeches had started to look good.
“Popped out like a piece of gristle,” Addie had said, unable to resist revealing the final detail. “Little black thing, it was. Shiny as a dead fly.”
Raif had told Addie to go. He could only take knowledge like that in small doses. And he had not liked word farmed.
Easing himself further back against the rock, Raif braced the weight of his upper body with his right arm. He knew better than to use his left. It was still weak and spasms passed along at unexpected moments, making it impossible to use with any confidence. Tallal said it would heal, given time.
A cool breeze channeled up the hillside, stirring the dark sea of trees. A lone heron was heading north, its scrawny yellow feet swaying from side to side as it beat its powerful wings. To the west the clanholds spread out in a series of hills and rolling valleys. Clansmen must have taken to the woods, for Raif could see several lines of smoke rising above the canopy. The warmer weather had brought out hunters. Elk would be moving north, like the heron, and moose would be calving. Boars would be out from their dens, snuffling for bulbs in the damp earth beneath the trees. Raif thought perhaps Tallal was right: he would heal. Already he wanted down there. He wanted to be deep in the woods, hunting with a good heavy spear and the Sull bow.
If he had no obligations that was what he would choose to do with his life, he realized, idly scanning the valley for game. If he could not be a clansman he would be a woodsman. Build himself a cabin for the winters, take to the trails in spring and summer, hunt, fish, learn some things about animals and nature. Swim in black-water pools, eat rosehips warmed by the sun and berries frozen by sudden frosts. Hopefully not die from cooking the wrong kind of mushrooms. It would be a life not without struggle and hardship. And it would be a life alone.
Raif thought of Ash then, her silver hair and fine hands and long legs . . . and he could not imagine her into that life. The dreams had no traction.
None of them did.
Back at the camp, Addie had walked the ewe from the corral and was grooming it with something that looked like a raccoon’s ribcage. “Curly-haired,” he’d said to Raif this morning. “Solid little milker. Wouldn’t have expected it from a fancy.” Between the sheep, the trapper’s tea, and the lamb brothers’ herbs, Addie Gunn was a happy man. Still, his attention wasn’t fully on the ewe. Every now and then he’d sneak a look at Raif whilst pretending to pull hairs from his newfangled comb. He was very bad at pretending.
Raif angled his face to get some sun. It felt good. Renewing. He now existed in a world where he had given his word and kept it. Traggis Mole’s bidding—half of it—had been done, and Raif now possessed the sword named Loss. It was waiting for him in the tent. He had not laid eyes on it since the day on the ice. According to Addie it would need some work. “Never seen anything like it,” was the only comment he had offered on its form. Raif felt a stirring of curiosity about the blade, and wondered if he would ever learn the raven lord’s name and history.
He also wondered, but would never ask, whether the lamb brothers had released the man’s soul. The raven lord’s fate was important to Raif Sevrance. He feared it would become his own.
Soon, the Endlords had promised him.
The warmth of the sun could not stop the chill from entering the damaged spaces in Raif’s heart. They had touched him through the frozen fingers of the raven lord. He’d seen them . . . and been seen.
They knew him now, knew his name and his purpose.
And where to find him.
Pushing himself up with his fist, Raif muscled himself to standing. He was Watcher of the Dead and he had a sword to grind and sand. And here was Addie coming toward him to help him down the slope.
Soon.
EPILOGUE
A Stranger at Drover Jack’s
Liddie Lott
was spilling the ale again. It was bad enough that she had kept the ewemen waiting five minutes while she swapped labor-pains stories with Bronwyn Quince, but now that she had actually managed to fill the tankards, a quarter of their contents was splashing onto the floor. What was wrong with the woman, that she couldn’t even walk straight? Was one leg shorter than the other?
Gull Moler, owner and sole proprietor of Drover Jack’s, dabbed the sweat from his forehead with a yellow shammy. It wouldn’t do. It just wouldn’t do. Those tankards were intended for his three best customers: Burdale Ruff, Clyve Wheat and Silus Craw. They were hard-talking ewemen and thrifty with their pennies and any moment now the complaining would begin.
Silus Craw, who had arrived earlier than the others and already had one ale inside him, was the first to notice the short measures. Sitting behind an upended beer keg with his chair against the wall, the little rat-faced drover made a show of peering deep into the newly delivered tankard. “There’s something missing here if you ask me, Clyve.”
Blond-eyebrowed Clyve Wheat leaned forward and squinted into his own ale cup. After a moment of deep thought he declared, “We should call her Liddie Spill-A-Lott.”
Burdale Ruff and Silus Craw exploded into laughter, stamping their feet against the floor and banging their cups against the table. Liddie was only a few feet away, tending the stew kettle, and she had to hear it when Silus cried, “Either that or Liddie Talk-A-Lott.”
As a second round of laughter erupted, Gull grabbed the nearest ale jug from the counter and moved in to calm everyone down. “Gentlemen,” he said, greeting the drovers. “Allow me to top up your cups.” The ale in the jug happened to be his best barley stout, and although all of the men were drinking yellow wheat none of them complained. Burdale Ruff had actually downed most of his original drink, but Gull topped his cup to the rim regardless. There were times to split hairs, and this wasn’t one of them. Business had been bad all week.
Just look at the place now. Early evening like this and one of the god’s days no less: every bench in the room should be straining under the weight of fat traders, ewemen, day laborers, and dairy girls. Talk should be loud and getting louder, and someone somewhere should be singing about his sheep. Instead there was a low and dreary hum, and sometimes even silence. Silence. Only a third of the chairs were spoken for—and that was counting Will Snug, who was passed out across two of them—and there was not one single patron singing, gaming, or attempting to impress the ladies with some puffed-up story about a small rod and a very big fish.
It was not a sight to warm a tavernkeep’s heart. Oh, Drover Jack’s itself was glowing. Those little pewter safelamps he’d bought from the thane’s stablemaster last spring burned cozily from the oak-panelled walls, and every bench back, floorboard, and tabletop was freshly waxed and gleaming. Smells of yeast, cured leather, and woodsmoke combined to create a manly, welcoming scent. It was a trim tavern, low-ceilinged, dim and inviting, and Gull liked to imagine that there were some in these parts who’d count themselves lucky to sup here. He just wished a few more of them had gotten off their backsides and come here this night, is all.
A storm was passing through Ewe Country. As Gull adjusted the stove’s air vent, he could hear the wind howling outside, blowing south from the Bitter Hills. The tavern creaked and shuddered, and when Bronwyn Quince opened the door to leave, the entire building wrestled with the wind.
Gull shivered. He was trying to decide whether he should burn fresh coal or take his chances with more wood. The cord of bog willow sent over by Will Snug in lieu of payment for an outstanding debt burned like cow pats, and was probably worth about as much. Still, there was a lot of it, and unlike coal it cost Gull nothing to burn. Gull thought and frowned, reached for the wood, stopped himself, and loaded his shovel with coal instead. Tonight marked the beginning of Grass Watch and was therefore the holiest night of spring, and if a man couldn’t breathe clean air now then it didn’t bode well for the rest of the year.
Besides, you never knew when business might pick up. As if on cue, the door swung open and a column of air rushed in the room. The flames in the stove leapt up as wooden beams shifted in their cuppings and a dozen patrons looked toward the door.
Freezing rain sprayed through the entranceway, glowing orange where the stovelight touched it. A figure, thickly cloaked against the cold, stood in the doorway and surveyed the room. After a moment, Silus Craw piped up “Close the door!” but the figure did not heed him. A deep hood concealed the stranger’s face. Gull marked bulges at the stranger’s waist and hip that had the look of serious weaponry. Beginning to get worried, Gull set down his shovel. He was going to have to do something about this. The action drew the stranger’s gaze his way, and Gull found himself looking into a pair of copper eyes.
With a movement that wasted nothing, the stranger closed the door. At that exact moment Liddie Lott came down the stairs carrying a tray of beer taps that had been soaking all night in lye. Liddie’s mind was on her feet and her head was down, and all you could see of her at first was her long chestnut hair. Like a whip-crack the stranger’s gaze came down upon her. Gull felt real fear then. He had seen something he recognized in the stranger’s copper eyes, and his experience of dealing with men and women over the past fifty years warned him it was the worst of all possible states of mind. Desperation.
Aware that something queer was going on around her, Liddie Lott looked up. The instant her ruddy well-fed face caught the light, the stranger’s gaze swept away. Whatever it was he searched for, Liddie Lott did not possess.
“Welcome, stranger,” Gull said, aiming for good cheer yet falling a little short. “Have you come to mark the Grass Watch with us?”
Again the stranger’s gaze fell on Gull. Slowly, he grasped the center point of his hood and pulled it back. Ice-tanned and deeply lined, his face told of a lifetime spent outside. Not for one moment did Gull make the mistake of imagining the stranger to be a farmer or eweman. No. The man had a way of standing and looking—a particular type of confidence that only those with martial skills possessed—that told Gull he had to be an adventurer or mercenary or grangelord.
Every patron in Drover Jack’s was held rapt by his presence. Looking around, seeing Lottie standing, mouth agape by the beer kegs, Burdale Ruff sitting in the corner with his meaty hand ready on his sword hilt, and the two Mundy boys shifting their position to align themselves more truly with the door, Gull suddenly wished for a little peace. His business was to serve food and ale, not tackle dangerous strangers. Trouble was, people expected him to take charge. Whatever drama happened in this tavern, be it a patron sick with the spurting vomits, a drunken brawl over a comely girl, or a lightning strike on the stove—Gull Moler was supposed to take care of it.
So that’s what he did. To Liddie he said, “Fill everyone’s cups with yellow wheat—on the house.” To Clyve Wheat: “I see you have your stringboard with you. How about picking out a tune? It’d be a poor Grass Watch if we didn’t have a song.” Then, without waiting for a reply, Gull moved forward to greet the stranger.
“On a night as cold as this a man needs two things. A warm stove and a fine malt. I’d be honored if you’d share them both with me.” Gull spoke quietly, and although he couldn’t quite bring himself to touch the stranger, he did his best to usher the man toward the back of the room where it was quiet and dim.
The stranger let himself be led away. His cloak was steaming, giving off a sharp wild-animal scent.
Out of the corner of his eye, Gull noted that the free beer was going down well: Jon Mundy was laughing with Liddie Lott, holding out his tankard for more. As yet Clyve Wheat hadn’t turned out a song, but Gull could hear him picking the strings as he tuned the board.
“Sit,” Gull said to the stranger, indicating the chair and tables in the corner. “I’ll be back in a blink with the malt.”
As Gull slipped behind the tavern’s small wooden counter, Burdale Ruff moved to speak with him. “Do you know who he is?” as
ked the big eweman, wagging his head toward the stranger.
Gull stepped on a crate to reach for his best malt, tucked high out of reach on the top shelf. “No. Never see him before in my life.”
“I have.”
That made Gull spin around. “Where?”
Burdale raised his considerable eyebrows. “Here, in the Three Villages. Saw him talking to some men-at-arms last Spring Faire.”
“Do you know anything about him?”
“You mean apart from what’s sodden obvious—he’s as dangerous as a half-skinned polecat?”
Unsure if that was actually a question, Gull tucked the malt under his arm and said, “I can’t keep him waiting.”
Burdale didn’t argue with this. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”
Strangely enough that didn’t make Gull feel one bit better as he walked to the back of his one room tavern. The stranger had pulled off his cloak, and there was no mistaking the hardware of war. Three knives arranged by blade-length hung from a wide belt slung across his hips, and a five foot longsword, unsheathed, rested within arm’s reach, against the wall.
The stranger watched Gull assessing the sword. “You have nothing to fear from me,” he said quietly.
Gull could think of no reply. The stranger’s voice was deep and weary, and it had a familiar lilt. Bear was right: this man came from around here. Setting down two wooden thumb cups, Gull said, “My name is Gwillem Moler and I own this tavern. How can I help you this night?”
The man’s face remained unchanged as Gull spoke, and Gull realized he had told the stranger nothing he did not already know. Silence followed. Gull made himself useful by pouring the malt. Behind him, the stove was still sending out black smoke that smelled faintly of damp. Liddie must have fed it more wood.
During Grass Watch it was custom to sprinkle rye seeds on the first meal and drink of the night. Padric the Proselyte had spent thirty days sitting in a rye field in late winter waiting for the first shoots of grass to poke through the thawing earth. Every morning when he awoke to find nothing but bare soil he denied God. Finally, on the thirtieth day, tiny, pale-green points emerged at sunset. That was the day Padric received God. Gull was generally disinterested in the stories of the First Followers, but Padric’s tale always moved him. Something about the man’s quiet dignity as he sat and waited struck a chord with Gull. Not many men would ask for proof of God and then sit in the cold for a month to get it. It had always seemed to Gull that Padric had proved himself by waiting, and that God probably wouldn’t have revealed himself to a man who had waited one day less.
