by J. V. Jones
“Secrets have to be kept.”
“Not bad ones. Never bad ones.”
Effie’s hand found her lore.
“Bad secrets lose their power when they’re told. The badness is shared.”
“Shared?”
“Yes. Between you and me.”
“You and me?”
Drey nodded. He looked so old, like a proper clansman in his boiled-leather breastpiece with its ribs of steel. And he was hurting so much—she could tell by the border of sweat around his hairline and the uneven rhythm of his breaths. She didn’t want to disappoint him or lie to him. She didn’t want to lose him, too, the way she had lost Da and Raif.
A quick squeeze of her lore steadied her, and then she spoke. She told her brother everything about the day in the Oldwood: how Raina had woken her and bade her come to check on the traps, how Mace Blackhail had come upon them, his horse lathered and muddy, and told Effie to leave as he wished to speak to Raina alone; how she had scrambled onto the cliff above them and what she had seen and heard. She told about the threat Mace had made to her, and the dead look in Raina’s eyes. Effie wasn’t good with words, and sometimes there were no words to describe what had happened between Mace and Raina, but she told everything as best she could, encouraged by Drey’s silence and patience and the unchanging expression on his face.
When she had finished, he nodded once. He did not question her in any way or ask her if she was sure. He took her hand in his and sat and thought. Effie had started shaking sometime during the telling and continued to shake now as she waited to see what her brother would do. She noticed that the sky was almost dark. It was very cold, but only her outsides felt it. Inside she was hot and rigid.
After some time Drey rose. “Come, little one. Let’s go inside.”
Effie rose with him. She hated how tired he sounded. She hated how she couldn’t tell what he felt.
The walk back to the roundhouse took forever. Effie looked down at her feet, crunching frozen weeds from step to step. They found the entrance chamber much changed from when they had left it. Torches burned, clansmen were gathered in small groups, speaking in hushed voices and drinking beer. Four young boys were sitting around a pile of mud- and hair-matted weaponry, cleaning hammer and ax heads in silent awe. Massive red-haired Paille Trotter was singing a song about the Clan Queen Moira Dhoone and the Maimed Man she had loved and lost. All the wounded had been carried away.
Effie thought that Drey would lead her through to the kitchens or the Great Hearth or even her own cell, but he cut left across the hall, toward the little crooked stair that led down to the chief’s chamber. Realizing straightaway what he meant to do, Effie pulled back, but Drey held her firm and would not let her go. They met man-chested Nellie Moss on the stairs. She was carrying a fiercely flaming lunt, which she made no effort to shield as they passed. Effie felt the heat of the flames singe hairs around her face.
Clan Blackhail had no seat like Clan Dhoone. No Hail chief had ever called himself a king, though over time many had gathered items of kingly power to them. The Clansword was one such thing, known throughout the clanholds as the symbol of Blackhail power. Clan Bludd had the Red Axe, which wasn’t really red at all and was said to be older than the clanholds themselves. Ganmiddich had a great plate of green marble known as the Crab Lode, as it had a giant fossilized crab in its center and had been quarried a thousand leagues from the nearest sea. Effie could recite all the clan treasures and emblems. Her favorite was Clan Orrl’s; they weren’t known by some grand weapon or polished stone, rather a simple oakwood walking stick known as the Crook.
Effie liked the thought of these treasures. They seemed beautiful to her. Precious. Once, when she had been reciting the emblems of each clan to Raina at the ladies’ hearth, Dagro Blackhail had walked in. She had stopped straightaway, but Dagro had bade her continue, and she’d gone through the clans from Bannen to Withy, pausing only once to show respect for the Lost Clan. When she had finished, Dagro Blackhail had laughed heartily—but not in a mean way—ruffled her hair, and told her that no one in the clan, not even Gat Murdock, could remember all those things. Dagro Blackhail had then thrust out his hand toward her and said, “You’d better come with me, young clanswoman, and I’ll show you our treasures firsthand. That way if anyone ever makes off wi’ them in the dead of the night, we can send you straight to the smithy. Between your memory and Brog’s hands, we’ll have new ones forged within a day.”
Effie had loved being called clanswoman. She had loved going to the chief’s chamber with Dagro Blackhail even more. Dagro had talked for hours about the clan treasures, holding them up to the torchlight and polishing them with the cuff of his sleeve before he’d let her look. It was the last time Effie had been in the chief’s chamber, a year before Dagro’s death.
These thoughts and others passed through Effie’s mind as she and Drey descended the stairs. It seemed a very long time since Dagro Blackhail had been chief.
Reaching the glistening, tar-blackened door of the chief’s chamber, Drey paused to push a hand through his hair. He took a breath, then shouldered open the door and forced his way into the room. Mace Blackhail, who had been sitting on a hide stool behind the square stone table that everyone called the Chief’s Cairn, stood. He was alone. His eyes flickered yellow and black in the torchlight. As he looked from Drey to Effie, his hand slid down to rest upon his swordbelt.
“What is the meaning of this?”
Drey tightened his hold on Effie’s hand. He took a breath, then said, “Effie told me what happened in the Oldwood. You are not worthy of my respect, Mace Blackhail. I call you out onto the court, here and now, to settle this matter with swords.”
Effie let out a choked cry. No. Drey couldn’t fight with Mace Blackhail. Not now, while he was injured. Not ever. The sword was Mace Blackhail’s chosen weapon, Drey’s was the hammer. Why had she told? Why? Why? Why?
Mace Blackhail looked at Effie, his thin lips curling to something between a sneer and a smile. A finger came down upon the Chief’s Cairn, casually, as if he were testing the surface for dust. “So you would cross steel with me, Drey Sevrance? Raina’s honor means that much to you?”
Drey made no reply. His body shook him with every breath.
“Now I come to think of it, it was you who thought to bring my foster father’s last token back from the badlands. You who tanned the hide, making it soft for Raina’s back.”
Drey wrenched his head savagely. Effie didn’t understand what Mace Blackhail was getting at. Of course Drey cared about Raina . . . everyone did. The chief’s chamber, which was small and coved like a bear cave, suddenly felt as hot and dangerous as a firepit primed with fat.
Mace Blackhail made a negligent gesture with his hand. He was dressed in wolf hides dyed black. “No matter, Sevrance. You’re not the only yearman who feels . . . protective of my wife. I know how highly she is regarded. And while your concern for her honor is touching, your rashness is a grave mistake. I—”
“This isn’t about Raina’s honor, Mace. It’s about yours—your lack of it.”
Effie swallowed air. Part of her wanted to cheer at Drey’s words. The other part of her was deeply afraid for her brother. Mace Blackhail was dangerous in different ways from other clansmen. He wasn’t hot-blooded like Ballic the Red, or fierce like Corbie Meese. He was as cold and sharp as the spikes of needle ice that formed on the bottom of melt ponds in spring, impaling bears and dogs by the act of simply existing.
“I wouldn’t be so foolish as to challenge my chief’s honor on the word of a half-grown girl.”
“My sister is no liar. I would lay my life on that.”
“I didn’t say she was a liar, Drey. She saw some things and heard some things, but only through the eyes of a child. She doesn’t understand what goes on between a man and a woman when they’re alone and in private. Tem lived like a hermit. She never happened upon him lovemaking, that’s for sure. She doesn’t even know what lovemaking is. Think, Drey. When Eff
ie spied upon me and Raina in the Oldwood, what did she see? She saw Raina playing coy and slapping me away—what woman would not do that? You know how they are. We tussled in the snow, I will not lie about that, and I daresay I pinned her down and she cuffed me for my trouble. A woman like Raina needs her loveplay rough—”
“Stop it!” Drey lashed out at the space separating him from Mace Blackhail, his face contorted with rage. “I will not hear such filth about Raina.”
“No. And I wouldn’t have had to speak it if it hadn’t been for your little sister here. It’s not her fault. Of course what she saw distressed her—all lovemaking looks like violence to a child.”
“You threatened her.”
“Yes, I did, and with good reason. I didn’t want the truth of what had happened coming from anyone’s mouth but mine or Raina’s. The child had no right to tell. It was not her business.”
“You’re lying. You have no honor.”
“Don’t I? Perhaps we should call Raina in and ask her the truth of it. She was the one who agreed to be my wife.”
Effie saw something within Drey waver. He didn’t step back exactly, but he let out a breath, and part of him seemed to withdraw as he did so. Effie felt sick with relief. She didn’t care about Mace Blackhail’s lies—and she knew they were lies. Mace Blackhail would kill Drey in a fight.
“Drey, heed me in this. I am your chief. I will not stand by and watch as you take the same path as your brother. You are too valuable to me and this clan. I see how the yearmen respect you. Corbie and Orwin are full of your praises. Just this past quarter, Corbie was here telling me how you saved Arlec’s life at battle’s end. I need men like you by my side. Good men, whose honesty and loyalty I can rely on.
“What has happened here in this chamber need go no further. You heard something and acted from your heart; I cannot fault you for that. I respect your challenge to fight me on the court, and hope that if the time ever comes when I’m in want of a clansman’s justice, you will stand where you are right now and make that same challenge again.”
Drey continued looking at Mace long after he had finished speaking. Mace’s expression did not change, but he brought himself up to his full height and sent a hand out to trail along the wall where the Clansword was mounted on wooden pegs. His eyes were all darkness now; there was nothing of wolf yellow in them.
After what seemed like hours, Drey turned to face Effie. Kneeling on one knee, he took both her hands in his. His face was pale, and she could see the uncertainty in his eyes. “Do you think you may have been confused by what you saw, little one? Did you actually see Mace strike Raina in a proper way, like I would strike a man in a fight?”
Effie’s chest was heavy with love and sadness. She had brought this mess upon him, and he had done what was right and proper and absolutely good. Even now he would fight. Even now, on just her say. The thought was almost too much to bear. Either way she harmed him. Lie, and she became a conspirator with Mace Blackhail, leading Drey away from what was right and true. Hold to the truth, and he would end up dead or gone . . . like Da and Raif.
That could not happen. Effie knew it in the deepest bit of her insides, yet it didn’t stop her from hating herself as she opened her mouth to lie. “I’m not sure anymore, Drey. Not sure. I thought . . . but then what Mace said—”
“Hush, little one. Hush.” Drey hugged her to him, wrapping his big arms about her like a cloak. She shook with relief and a dreadful kind of shame. It was as if she had betrayed him.
“I am glad in my heart this matter is settled,” Mace Blackhail said, moving out from behind the Chief’s Cairn and offering his hand to Drey. “It is behind us now, and we shall not speak of it again.”
Drey released his hold on Effie and stood. He stepped toward Mace, and the two clasped forearms without exchanging another word. Their gazes held, and Effie could almost feel Mace Blackhail’s will working upon Drey, like when Brog Widdie took white-hot metal from his oven and pulled it into the shape he needed. Mace slapped Drey on the shoulder as they moved apart. “Get yourself to Laida Moon. Have her take a look at whatever injury you’re nursing beneath that breastpiece. I need you well. I heard a rumor that the Dog Lord is set to march on Bannen, and we ride south tomorrow to steal his thunder.”
Mace Blackhail ushered Drey to the door. Effie followed after. As Drey turned his attention to the first of the stairs, Effie felt Mace Blackhail’s finger slide across her throat. “What did I say would happen if you went telling tales?” His voice was softer than the sound of Drey’s boots against the stone.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Dancing Ice
Skinned hands clawed her. Faces burned by something darker and more terrible than flames pushed against her, openmouthed and pleading. Seared tissue cracked, revealing pale pink flesh beneath. Proud flesh: raised and stippled and full of lifeblood. The first sign of healing.
Reach, reach. We must have it . . . we need it . . . give us what we need . . . you must . . . we will make you . . . we know ways to harm you . . . we have waited too long. Reach!
Red eyes glowed with malice. Lips spread, revealing night smiles. She turned, but there were more at her back. She crumbled their substance in her fists, breaking them down into ash and fire scraps, but for every limb she broke, another dozen rose to haunt her. Glancing into the distance, through the charred and greasy timbers of their arms and legs, she saw the wall of black ice. The ice cave. Suddenly it no longer seemed like a—
“Wake up! Ash! Wake!”
Hands of flesh and blood pulled at her, tugging her back through so many layers of sleep that she felt like a diver emerging from water.
“Wake! Please wake.”
She opened her eyes. Daylight flooded in like salt water, harsh, stinging, and unwelcome. It had been pitch dark in her dream, she remembered. She always dreamed of night.
“Angus. She’s awake.”
Hands touched her forehead and cheek, warm hands, rough and gentle, not like her foster father’s hands at all. A face appeared before her. Raif, she thought, pleased at her ability to find names.
“It’s me. Raif. You’re safe. Angus is here. We’re three days north of Spire Vanis, in the spruce woods east of the Spill.”
It took Ash much time to decipher what he said. She looked into his eyes: What color were they? An inky blue? A shade between midnight and black? After a moment she asked the only question that mattered. “How long?”
“All of last night and most of the morning.”
Feeling she might be sick, Ash tugged herself free of his hold and twisted her head toward the ground. Half a day! How long will it be before no one can wake me? Aware of Raif’s eyes upon her, she straightened her spine. She decided she would not be sick in front of him. After a moment she felt well enough to sit. The action made her hurt in new ways. The third finger on her left hand felt big and sore, tucked away in its splint. Her shoulder ached, and her mouth tasted of saddle leather and horses.
“Here. Drink this.”
Ash took the offered waterskin and let some of the icy water run over her face. Raif watched her as she opened her mouth to drink. He knew about the voices. She didn’t know how it was possible, but he knew.
“I felt you . . . go last night, just before we made camp. We tried to wake you, but you were far away. Angus thought it better to let you sleep.”
“He bound my mouth?”
Raif nodded. “And your hands.” They both looked away.
Ash scanned the surrounding territory. Camp had been made on a hillside above a wooded valley. Great columns of black spruce, weighed down by ton upon ton of new snow, rose up like a city around them. To the south the blue giants that were the Southern Ranges floated above the horizon, shimmering with ice. Overhead the sky was thick with snow clouds, and it was impossible to tell where the sun lay. Ash shivered. She had no memory of coming here.
As she turned back to face Raif, she heard hounds howling and barking in the distance. Following the sound with her ey
es, she looked down across the valley and into the deepest depths of the spruces, whose needles shone black as night.
“I think we’d better be on our way.” Angus strode into her line of vision, his big red-stubbled face as calm as if he had heard sparrows singing, not hounds. “Ash.” He held out a gloved hand for her to take. Ash grasped it, and he pulled her off the ground as effortlessly as if she were made of twigs. “Raif. Saddle the horses. I’ll see to the remains of the camp.”
“What should I do?” Ash forced a calmness into her voice that she did not feel. She didn’t like appearing weak before Angus.
“Fill the skins with snow.” Angus fished inside his buckskin coat and took out a package wrapped in linen. “Take this and eat every scrap of it, even the fat around the eggs. I know you don’t feel much like it, but you must force yourself. You haven’t eaten in over a day.”
Unable to think of a reply, Ash nodded. In a strange way Angus’ vigilance reminded her of Penthero Iss; they both wanted to feed and watch over her.
The past three days had been a new kind of nightmare for Ash. Her life had changed absolutely and forever the moment she had stepped into the shadow of Vaingate. Marafice Eye had conjured himself up from a pile of beggar’s rags. Two charcoal burners attending a brazier had peeled red blades from their sides like strips of skin. An old drunk lying in the snow had shaken off his years and infirmities like a leper touched by the gods, and one guard standing alone in the gate tower had suddenly turned into three. Ash had seen it as a kind of magic, the sort used by street corner magicians, all misdirection, mirrors, and smoke. She had continued running for the gate anyway. To be that near and not cross to the other side was unthinkable, a failure of the worst kind.
After that, madness took her. She remembered only fear and death. When it was over and the man who called himself Angus had asked her to travel with him and his kinsman to Ille Glaive, all that had mattered to Ash was getting through the gate. That was why, in the end, she had agreed to go with them: They were heading her way.
