by J. V. Jones
“Are you coming wi’ us, lad?” Ballic said, his great broom of a beard catching his breath and then turning it to ice. “Tem was always telling me how good you are wi’ that bent stick of yours. We could do wi’ an extra bowman. Eh, Corbie?”
Corbie Meese hesitated before answering, tugging on his dogskin gloves to make them sit right on his hands. “I’m not sure he should come, Bal. Mace said only yearmen and full clansmen. With the dangers involved, ’tis only right and fitting.”
“Aye. You speak the truth.” Ballic the Red set his fierce gray eyes upon Raif for a moment before turning his gaze to the animal carcasses riding Moose’s back. Raif could see him counting. When he spoke it was to Corbie, not Raif. “Twelve skins in half a night, eh? Heart kills, too. And one of them’s a snagcat. Quite a cache, and that’s no mistaking.”
“Lad’s trouble, Bal,” Corbie said. Then to Raif: “Nothing personal, lad. You’ve just reached that age when you’re as much harm as help to have around. And Mace Blackhail has no love of you, that’s for sure.”
Ballic chuckled. “Aye, but try as he might he can’t keep the lad from his meetings!” The bowman slapped Raif on the back with a hand that was gloved then mitted. No one took as much care of his bowfinger than Ballic the Red. “So, lad. Tell me the truth. Are you as fine a shot as Shor Gormalin and your da would have me believe?”
Raif looked down. How could he answer? “I’m better at some things than others. I’m no good at hitting targets, but game . . .” He shrugged. “I do well with game.” As he spoke, clansmen began to emerge from the stables with their mounts. Drey was one of the first to trot his horse onto the court. Orwin Shank had given him a fine black stallion with strong legs and a wide back. Dawn light had started to shine across the snow, and Raif could clearly see the expression on his brother’s face. It made something in his chest tighten. Drey did not want him along.
“How old are you, lad?” Ballic the Red’s question seemed to come from a very great distance.
“Sixteen.”
“So you’re due for your yearing this spring?”
Raif nodded.
“Well, I say we call Inigar Stoop out here and now, and let him take your oath where you stand. Couple o’ months will make no difference either way.”
Corbie Meese sucked in a good deal of air. The cold had turned his lips gray. His wedge-shaped chest and ham arms strained against his elkskin coat as he stamped his booted feet upon the snow. “Stone Gods, Bal! Mace’ll have a frothing fit if he learns you’re planning on taking the lad’s oath. Why, just last night—”
“Where is Mace?” Raif interrupted. “Is he riding with the ambush party?”
“He’ll be holding back a day to stand vigil afore Inigar anoints him as chief.”
Raif kept his features still, but he felt his pupils shrinking as they cut out a portion of the light. So Mace Blackhail would stand Chief Watch in the guidehouse, lashed to the north-facing plain of the guidestone through twelve hours of darkness, alone, unspeaking, eyes open to see the faces of nine gods. His spine would touch granite in three places, and the chief’s mantle that he wore would soak up graphite oil and fluids from the guidestone. Afterward, when Inigar cut him free with the Clansword, chiefblood would be let and nine drops of Mace’s blood would be allowed to fall into the Gods Bowl hewn within the stone. Later Mace would speak terrible oaths and pledges before the clan, renouncing his birthclan and giving himself wholly to Blackhail for life. Later still, he would draw a guide circle with his own hand and step within it and ask the Stone Gods to smite him down if they judged him unfit to be chief.
Aware of Corbie Meese’s eyes upon him, Raif did not let his anger show. But it was there, hot and twisted like a piece of black iron in his chest. He hoped the Stone Gods sent Mace Blackhail to hell.
“Mace will ride to catch up with us when he can,” Corbie said. “He sat up all night overseeing clan defenses.” The hammerman looked impatient to be on his way. He kept glancing at the increasingly wide circle of clansmen who had trotted their horses from the stables and were busy buckling bedrolls and feed sacks in place. “He’s heard tell that the Dog Lord has sent cowlmen to our borders. So none of us can trust our own shadows from now on. Mace’ll catch up wi’ us within a day.”
Cowlmen. All thoughts of Mace Blackhail slid from Raif’s mind. He now understood what had made Corbie and Ballic so nervous when he had first approached the court. Cowlmen were the nearest thing in the clanholds to assassins. Named after the long, hooded cloaks they wore, which were said to switch colors along with the seasons, they traveled into enemy territory, took up positions near game tracks and trapping runs, and lay low for days on end, biding their time until someone came along whom they could kill. The casualties they caused were few in relation to raiding and ambush parties—lone hunters usually or, if they were lucky, small hunt parties—but that wasn’t the point. They created fear. When cowlmen were thought to be loose within a clanhold, no one could leave the roundhouse and be sure of returning home. A cowlman could shoot a woman out tending her traps without once showing his face. They could be anywhere: high in the canopy of a purple blue hemlock, hiding in the fecal-like sludge of a moss bog, or crouching behind the red spine of a sandstone ridge. In winter, it was said some cowlmen even buried themselves in snow, lying for hours with their weapons crossed over their chests, ready to bring cold death.
“Well, Mace Blackhail’s gonna have to find my blunts and roast ’em, for the lad’s coming wi’ me.” Ballic the Red’s gaze was almost wistful as he studied the kills on Moose’s back. “You know how valuable a good marksman is to an ambush party, Corbie. Heart kills like these will drop the Bluddsmen where they stand.” Then to Raif: “Set here, lad, while I fetch Inigar Stoop.” Without waiting for any response, Ballic made his way back to the roundhouse.
Raif watched him go. He didn’t know if he wanted to ride with the ambush party or not. Moose would have to be left behind; the gelding had been hard ridden these past three days and needed sleep. Drey clearly didn’t want him to go. Raif could see his brother now, astride the black, edging closer so he could keep track on what was happening between the two senior clansmen and his younger brother. Then there were the things that niggled away in the back of Raif’s mind, things about Mace Blackhail. It wasn’t usual for the head of an armed party to split from his men on the final leg of the journey. And from one short visit to a stovehouse, Mace Blackhail had learned an awful lot, enough to spread fear throughout the clanhold and send an ambush party east to beset Bludd.
It didn’t fit.
Raif glanced at Corbie Meese, wondering if he should speak such things out loud. The hammerman had been quick to pledge his arms to Mace Blackhail, yet what had happened last night in the Great Hearth had not sat well with anyone, and both Corbie and Ballic seemed less inclined to keep Mace Blackhail’s good opinion than they were yesterday. Still, it would all be forgotten once Mace and Raina were wed. Raif pushed back his hood, suddenly feeling hot and trapped beneath it. He didn’t like to think of Raina Blackhail with Mace. It was another thing that didn’t fit.
“Here! Gather round now!” Ballic the Red’s fierce booming voice broke the silence of the court as the bowman stepped from the roundhouse, dragging the little white-haired guide behind him. “Raif Sevrance is about to take First Oath.”
A murmur passed through the ambush party. Bald-headed Toady Walker muttered, “He’s gone and done it now.” Behind his back, Raif heard Drey swear softly, not quite to himself.
Inigar Stoop did not look pleased. He was dressed in a pigskin coat, dyed black as was clan way. Disks of slate, sliced so thin they looked like scales, were attached to the collar and hem. The cuffs had been singed at the Great Hearth to mark the onset of war. Judging from the flatness of the clan guide’s hair and the number of untied lacings on his coat, Ballic the Red had just pulled him from his bed. Pieces of slate snapped as he moved.
“Let’s get this over and done,” he said, frowning
at the dawn sky. “Though I warn you now, ’tis not a fitting time and place.”
Almost without thinking, Raif reached up to touch his raven lore. The black horn felt as cold and smooth as a pebble plucked from ice. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to do this now, before three dozen clansmen, yet even as he let the lore drop against his chest, Inigar Stoop was taking a swearstone from the cloth pouch he wore at his waist. Warming the stone in his fist, Inigar named the Stone Gods. His voice was thin and wavering, and the gods’ names had a sharpness to them that Raif had never noticed before. Ground mist receded. Light from the rising sun reflected off the downsides of clouds, washing the courtyard with a pale silver light. The wind had long since died, and the sound of Inigar’s voice carried well beyond the court.
When all nine gods had been named, Inigar uncurled his fist and held out his hand. His black eyes never once left Raif as he waited for the stone to be claimed. Even though his raven lore was outside his coat, resting against oiled hide and waxed wool, Raif felt it was inside his skin. A strong desire to flee came upon him, to knock the swearstone from Inigar’s hand, drive it deep into the snow with the heel of his boot, and run off across the frozen headlands, never to return. Things were moving too fast.
“Take the stone, Raif Sevrance.” Inigar Stoop’s eyes were as dark as volcanic glass. “Take it and put it in your mouth.” Raif did not move, could not move. The guide raised his arm a fraction, made a jabbing motion with his hand. “Take it.”
Over the guide’s shoulder, Ballic the Red nodded vigorously at Raif. He had pulled an arrow from his case and held it in his fist, point facing down. Corbie Meese had freed his hammer from his strap and had it weighed across his chest. A glance to the side showed that the entire ambush party had drawn weapons, sliding them from horn couchings and leather cradles and scabbards lined with wool. All here had taken First Oath. Drawing weapons was a sign of respect.
Raif’s mouth ran dry. Inigar Stoop’s old brown face, with its beaklike nose and hollow cheeks, hardened. A thin breeze gusting across the court set his slate medallions tinkling.
“Take it.”
Raif raised his hand toward the swearstone. As his shadow fell upon Inigar’s open palm, a raven cawed. A bird, dark and oily as a piece of meat blackened on the fire, swooped down into the court. Descending on a cold current, it rolled its body, diving and shrieking, until a column of warm air gave it lift. Flapping its knife wings just once, it came to rest on the weathercock high atop the stable roof.
The raven watched with yellow eyes as Raif’s hand closed around the swearstone. Small flecks of white metal dotting the stone’s surface caught and reflected light as Raif brought it to his lips. Under his tongue it went, tasting of chalk and earth and sweat. Tiny bits of grit broke from it, filtering to the bottom of his mouth.
Inigar Stoop glanced once at the raven, then spoke. “Do you pledge yourself to the clan, Raif Sevrance, son of Tem? Your skills, your weapons, your blood and bones? Do you pledge to stay with us, amongst us, for one year and a day? Will you fight to defend us and stop at nothing to save us and give your last breath to the Heart of the Clan? Will you follow our chief and watch over our children and give yourself wholly for four seasons?”
Raif nodded.
Kaaw!
“And do you do this freely, of your own will? And are you free of all other oaths, ties, and bonds?”
Kaaw!
The swearstone was like lead in Raif’s mouth. Minerals bled from it, tainting his saliva with a foul metal taste. It isn’t right, he wanted to cry. Can’t you feel it? Yet to do such a thing seemed like madness of the worst kind. He’d already gained a name for making trouble—even his own brother had said so. Stop First Oath now and he might as well run south to the taiga and never come back; he would never be able to show his face at the roundhouse again. No. He had to take this oath. For as long as he could remember he had lived his life expecting to take it. Now Inigar Stoop stood before him, the cuffs of his pig coat burned black for war, his breath rising in a blue line from his lips, waiting on the sign that would seal it.
Raif steeled himself. He nodded for a second time.
Kaaaaa! Kaaaaa!
Inigar Stoop jerked back as the raven screamed, bending at the waist as if he’d taken a blow to the gut. His eyes closed briefly, and when he opened them again Raif saw immediately that knowledge lay within them, like the core of blue ice that slept through summer deep beneath the badlands’ crust. Quickly Raif looked away. Inigar knew. He knew.
“You have taken First Oath, Raif Sevrance,” the guide said, the words falling like stones from his mouth. “Break it and you make yourself a traitor to this clan.”
Raif could not meet his eyes. No one moved or spoke. The wind picked up, and the raven flung itself from the weathercock and onto its mercy, wings unfurling like pirate’s sails, black so they could sail through enemy waters by night.
Kaaw! Kaaw! Kaaw!
Traitor! Raif heard. Traitor! Traitor!
He shuddered. His lore lay like a dead weight against his chest, pressing so heavily he could barely breathe. Unbidden, a vision of the little blond-haired luntman Wennil Drook came to him: Dagro Blackhail and liver-spotted Gat Murdock pushing the bloodwood staves through the pink hairless skin on Wennil’s back. Later, when it was all over and done and Wennil’s corpse lay blue and frozen on the barren earth of the fellfields, Inigar Stoop had taken a chisel to the guidestone and cut his heart from the clan.
“Who will stand second to this yearman?” Inigar said, turning to face the ambush party. “Who will vouch for him and guide him and stand at his side for a year and a day? Who amongst you will come before me and take a beggar’s share in his oath?”
Shor Gormalin. Raif fought for a breath and held it. On the return journey from Gnash, the fair-haired swordsman had hinted that he would be willing to stand second to Raif’s oath. Shor was not here, though. Raif didn’t know where he was, couldn’t even be sure if he had returned from his outing last night. And even if he had returned and was sitting in the kitchen drinking hearth-warmed beer and crunching on bacon, he would hardly be in a mood to bother with the yearing of some untested youth. The business with Raina Blackhail had gone hard on him.
Inigar Stoop waited for someone to speak. His beaklike nose cast a long shadow across his cheek. Raif thought he would be well pleased if no one stepped forward to back the oath. The raven circled over the court, silent except for the faint whistle of air through its pinion feathers. Corbie Meese and Ballic the Red exchanged glances. Raif saw Ballic the Red thinking hard, mitted hands smoothing the fletchings of the arrow he held in his fist. Raif could almost guess what he was thinking: The lad is a bowman, like me . . .
“I will stand second to his oath.” Drey. Drey kicking Orwin Shank’s black stallion forward and trotting through the snow to stand at Raif’s side. Drey saying, “I know I am only a yearman myself, but I have sworn two such oaths of my own and will soon swear a third, and I count myself a steady man who takes no responsibility lightly. If the full clansmen will permit it, I would back my brother’s word.”
A ripple of relief passed through the ambush party. For a moment it had looked as if no one were willing to step forward. Inigar Stoop did not look pleased, but it was out of his hands now. It was up to the clansmen with greatest due respect to say whether or not Drey, a mere yearman himself, could stand second to his brother’s oath. Raif glanced at Drey. His brother made a small shrugging motion. Tem’s elkskin coat fitted him well, made him look older than his eighteen years.
Corbie Meese cleared his throat. Slapping his iron hammer-head into his palm, he said, “You’re a good clansman, Drey Sevrance. There’s none here who would say otherwise. The past few weeks have been hard on all of us, yet you have kept your head and done your duty and proven yourself to be an asset to this clan. I for one can see no reason why you can’t back your brother’s oath. You have the heart for it and the steadiness of purpose, and if you are willing to stand before th
is party and swear that you will watch your charge well and closely, then that’s good enough for me.”
Ballic the Red and others nodded. The raven circled, slow and lazy as a dragonfly in summer.
Inigar Stoop’s face showed no emotion. “Will you do as Corbie asks, Drey Sevrance?”
Drey slid down from his horse. His brown eyes sought Raif. “I swear.”
Raif felt a tightness come to his throat. Drey had not wanted him along on this trip, had warned him only last night about the damage he was doing to himself and their family, yet here he was, standing before three dozen clansmen, speaking on his brother’s behalf. Shame burned Raif’s cheeks. He wished he could take back what had been said between them last night in the hall. Words couldn’t be unsaid, though. Raif knew that.
“So be it.” Inigar Stoop sounded as if he were proclaiming a sick man dead. He turned to face Raif. “Your oath has been spoken, Raif Sevrance. You are a yearman now in the eyes of clan and gods. Let neither party down.” The wind switched as Inigar spoke, blowing hard against his face. He should have said more—Raif had been present at enough yearings to know that the guide was supposed to pass blessing and offer words of guidance to the sworn man—but Inigar just pressed his lips together and turned to face the wind full on.
In the uncomfortable silence left, Raif spat out the swearstone. Rubbing it dry against the fox fur of his hood, he waited for Drey to take it from him. Normally Inigar Stoop would transfer the stone from one clansman to another, yet Raif could tell from the set of the guide’s profile that he wanted no more to do with this ceremony. To him it was already done.
All gathered were silent as Drey took the small dark swearstone and slipped it into one of the many pouches hanging from his waist. The ambush party was eager to be gone. Drey reached out and cuffed Raif’s shoulder. “You’d better hurry and get your roll together for the ride . . .” He grinned. “Clansman.”
