by J. V. Jones
Raif breathed deeply. Beneath the bandages his hands felt like raw meat. Pain had made him twist and sweat in his blankets for two nights. It was almost as if his flesh had been burned, not frozen. In his dreams he envisaged tearing off the bandages and thrusting the scorched flesh in snow. The worst time had been sunset on the second night, when the Sull warrior called the Naysayer had stripped off the first set of bandages and cleaned the black flesh. Bits of tissue had come away in his cloth. Raif had looked down and not recognized the wet sticks of flesh as his fingers. When he’d asked the Sull warrior if he would lose any of them, the man had said simply, “Nay.”
He’d used the same word later, in the middle of the night, when Ash had cried out in her sleep. Raif had watched as the great bear of a man had laid his hand on her head and said, “Nay, silver-haired one. No demons will reach you here.”
The care the warrior had taken of Ash was beyond Raif’s knowledge as a clansman. The Naysayer had taken dried blackroot and barberry leaves and made a hot tea from them, which he woke Ash every few hours to drink. When asked, he’d said that the tea would take the yellow poison from her blood. There had been tinctures made from the leafy twigs of mistletoe and the golden resin of a tree unknown to Raif. Her body had been cleaned and massaged with fragrant oils, the chilblains on her face washed with witch hazel, and the cuts and frost sores dressed with purified fox grease and native moss.
Raif slept through much of what the Naysayer had done. Exhaustion made it impossible for him to stay awake for long periods of time. By the time the two Sull warriors stepped into the circle he had drawn in the snow, it took everything he had to meet them standing. Raif smiled grimly at the memory. He was paying the cost of that clannish pride now.
It took him an unacceptable amount of time to struggle to his feet. He could not use his bandaged hands to lever his weight, so his legs were forced to do all the work. The more his muscles labored, the more determined he became to stand and walk. The Sull warriors had helped him and Ash, and he was grateful for that, but the thought of being dependent upon them for one moment longer than necessary stiffened his jaw. They were Sull. He was clan. For three thousand years they had shared borders, nothing else.
By the time he reached Ash, she was beginning to stir. He called her name softly, and it was enough to cause her eyes to open. “Raif.”
He sent thanks to the Stone Gods . . . and the Sull gods, whose names he did not know. “Morning, sleepy.”
She yawned a great big yawn, then smiled up at him apologetically. “Sorry. That’s not very ladylike, is it?”
He didn’t care. Whatever the Naysayer had done, it had worked. The skin on her face was now pink and translucent, and no sign of jaundice or swelling remained. He risked kneeling so he could be nearer to her. “How do you feel?”
“Sore. Tired.” Her gaze had followed his hands as he knelt. “What happened?”
He shrugged. “I killed a wolf bare-handed.”
She smiled nervously, unsure whether or not he was joking.
Switching the subject, he said, “I need to ask the two Sull—”
“Sull?”
He nodded. “The two men who found us in the valley and took us in are Sull.”
Absently Ash touched the moss patch on her cheek. “I didn’t realize . . . I just felt warm hands touching me . . . voices asking me to drink.” Her gray eyes suddenly took on the amethyst light from the fire. “How long have I . . .”
“We’re two days north of the pass. On the morning of the second day you lost consciousness and I carried you until it grew dark.”
“Carried me.” Ash repeated the words in a small voice. “What happened then?”
Raif looked down. He hardly knew the answer to that himself and wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. For the first time in days he felt for his lore. It was tucked deep beneath his wool shirt, the twine that held it half-rotted with sweat. Abruptly he tucked it away. As quickly as he could he told his story.
When he had finished, Ash said, “So you drew a guide circle and the two Sull warriors came?”
“The sound of the wolves may have drawn them.”
“You don’t believe that, do you?”
“I don’t know what I believe anymore.” His voice was harder than he meant it to be.
Ash looked at him for a long moment before saying, “How long will it take us to reach Mount Flood?”
He was grateful to her for changing the subject. He refused to think about what possible reasons the Stone Gods might have for protecting him. “That’s what I meant to ask you. I may need to tell the Sull warriors where we’re headed. There’s a mountain peak to the north of here, a great blue thing choked with glaciers, and I’m pretty sure it’s Mount Flood. But what I don’t know is where the Hollow River lies in relation to the base. We could lose a week just searching for running water.”
Ash thought for a while before answering. Raif could hear the rough catch of her breath, and he reminded himself that she was still very weak. Finally she said, “You trusted these men with both our lives. At any point over the past two days they could have caused us harm, but they didn’t. I think they came because you summoned them, and both you and they know it, and somehow that binds them to you.” Raif opened his mouth to protest, but she headed him off with a question. “Do you think the Stone Gods brought them here merely to bandage our wounds and send us on our way, like surgeons on a battlefield?”
Raif frowned. By speaking so, she was brushing too close to issues no clansman would ever dare to question. Stone Gods were not like the One God who watched over the cityholds: They did not concern themselves with the day-to-day lives of their followers. And they answered no small prayers. Suddenly aware of the pain in his hands, he said, “I will tell them only of our destination. Nothing more.”
Ash nodded.
Raif shifted his body toward the fire and set his mind on finding warm food and liquid for her to take.
The lip of the firepit was ringed with stone carvings that were meant to be held in the hand. All were the color of the night sky or the moon. Objects carved from obsidian, opal, white mica, blue black iron, and rock crystal shot with silver had all collected so much heat from the fire that they were warm to the touch. The carvings were very old, and much of the detail had been lost, but their round edges and heavy weight made them pleasing to hold. Raif had watched as the smaller of the two Sull warriors had placed one carving in a copper bowl packed with snow, then set it aside until the carving’s heat had rendered liquid. He had not drunk the snowmelt, Raif recalled. Instead he had used it to moisten a cloth that both he and his companion had cleansed their hands with.
Raif returned the carvings to their place and reached down to take a small copper kettle from the fire’s edge.
“The man who cared for me,” Ash said, “he reminded me of one of the Bluddsmen.”
“Cluff Drybannock.” Raif could not keep the hardness from his voice. “He’s a Trench-born bastard.”
“So he’s part Sull?”
Raif winced as his fingers dealt with the weight of the kettle. “Yes. Trenchlanders haven’t called themselves Sull for centuries, but no matter how many children they sire with clan and city men, the Sull still protect them as their own.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. Trenchlanders trade with the clans and the Mountain Cities. Sull don’t; they trade only with Trenchlanders.”
“So the Sull need the Trenchlanders for trade, and the Trenchlanders need the Sull for protection?”
Raif shrugged. “Something like that.” As he spoke a giant pair of hands parted the tent flap and the warrior named the Naysayer stepped into the tent in a flurry of wind and snow. The second warrior stepped after him, carrying an iced-up chunk of meat in his fist. While the Naysayer brushed ice from his hair and furs, the second warrior dropped the meat at Raif’s feet.
“I cut the heart from the beast, Clansman. It is yours to eat.”
Raif didn’t
have to look at it to know that it was Pack Leader’s heart. He shook his head. “Clan do not eat wolf.”
The two warriors exchanged glances. “So you do not heart-kill for meat?”
Realizing the object of discussion was no longer the wolf, but the man who had killed it, Raif said, “I did what I had to, to protect Ash and myself. If you want the carcass, take it. I have nothing else to offer you in payment.”
The Sull warrior made no reply. After a moment he said, “The Naysayer believes you wear the cloak of a false clan. He says you are a Hailsman. Is this true?”
So they have found the silver cap from Drey’s tine. Aloud Raif said, “I have no clan.”
“Do you have no name also?”
“I am Raif Sevrance.” Watcher of the Dead.
The Sull warrior nodded slowly. “I am Ark Veinsplitter, Son of the Sull and chosen Far Rider. My hass is Mal Naysayer, Son and Far Rider also.”
The two warriors stood still, awaiting a response. Raif hesitated, unsure what to do. It was Ash who broke the silence. “I am Ash March, Foundling, born in the shadow of Vaingate. I thank you, Ark Veinsplitter and Mal Naysayer, for the gifts of care and shelter you have given. As Raif said, we have no gifts to repay you, but know this: I shall carry the knowledge of Sull kindness with me always.”
The expressions of the two Sull warriors did not alter as Ash spoke, but something within their eyes changed. The Naysayer was the first to come forward and bow to her, the lynx fur at his throat still shedding snow. Ark Veinsplitter watched his companion, the firelight casting fingers of shadow on his face, then came and bowed no less deeply. “You have spoken well, Ash March, Foundling. May the moon always light your way in darkness and your arrows always find the heart.”
Food was cooked and eaten after that. Ark Veinsplitter pulled a partially butchered goat carcass in from the snow, while the Naysayer fed dead wood to the fire to make it hot enough for cooking. After he had gutted the carcass and presented Ash with the raw liver to strengthen her blood, Ark rubbed the meat with dark spices and sourwood and set it to roast. Within minutes the tent was filled with the fatty, briny aroma of roasted goat.
“No wolf?” Raif said when it was obvious that no other meat was to be added to the fire.
Ark Veinsplitter cracked his first smile. “Sull do not eat wolf, either. If we want tough meat we eat our saddles instead.” He reached down and picked up Pack Leader’s heart. The heat in the tent had thawed it, and now Raif could clearly see where the willow staff had split it in two. “Of course, the Naysayer has been known to chew on their bones. What say you, hass?”
“Wolf bones! Nay! You speak with false memories, Veinsplitter. Perhaps you have spilt too much blood today.”
Laughing softly, Ark Veinsplitter slipped from the tent. After a moment Raif pulled on his cloak and followed him out.
The wind was shocking after the stillness of the tent. Snow had stopped falling, but dry powder blew close to the ground like shifting sand. Beneath his bandages, Raif felt his hands burning as if they had been doused in pure alcohol and set alight. He watched as the Sull warrior threw the wolf heart onto the ground and pushed it deep beneath the snow with the sole of his boot.
“That mountain ahead, the dark wall on the horizon, is it Mount Flood?”
If the Sull warrior was surprised he was not alone, he did not show it. “It is one name for it.” He did not turn around as he spoke.
“And do you know from which face the Hollow River flows?”
Ark Veinsplitter’s body stiffened. “I do.”
Raif waited. Minutes passed, and still he waited, and finally the Sull warrior spoke.
“The Hollow River runs from the southwest face of Mount Flood. It is easily found by the dark mass of spruce that grow on its banks, and the glacier tongue that points down from the mountain toward it.”
“And caverns. Do you know of any that lie close to the river?”
The Sull warrior breathed so softly his breath failed to whiten in the air. Raif saw that he had pulled on no gloves, yet he held his hands unclenched. Without a word he moved around the tent to a sheltered place where the three Sull horses had been stabled beneath a canvas of caribou hide stretched on poles. All three horses wore lamb’s-wool blankets, and the metal on their bits and harnesses was wrapped with fleece. They were huge animals, with deep chests, thick coats, and feathered skirts around each hoof. Their intelligent, sculpted heads reminded Raif of Angus’ bay.
Ark Veinsplitter rubbed the gray’s nose. “The caverns lie beneath the river, not beside it.”
The blue sniffed Raif, looking for contact or treats. With his hands bandaged and aching, Raif could offer neither, yet for some reason the horse chose to stay. “I don’t understand.”
“Kith Masso. The Hollow River. The Sull named it so.”
“Why?”
Finally Ark Veinsplitter turned and looked at him, his ice-tanned hands on his horse’s bridle. Strangely, he was smiling. “I had forgotten you were a clansman,” he said. There was no malice in his words, just a deep and terrible sadness that made Raif afraid for all of them: the Sull warriors, Ash, himself.
Looking into Ark Veinsplitter’s night-dark eyes, Raif knew he had not made a mistake by asking about the river and its caverns, but there was something here that he did not understand. When the Sull warrior spoke, each word seemed to come at a cost.
“Kith Masso is fed by the snow and glacier melt of Mount Flood. During the moons of spring it is a deep river, fast moving with water the color of sapphires and the scent of wildflowers and iron ore. Beneath later moons its waters slow and stiffen, and a great crust of ice forms upon the surface, while the river runs silent beneath. Then the headwaters freeze. There is no more snow or glacier melt, and the fountainhead of the spring that births the river becomes blocked with gravel and ice. So the waters of Kith Masso drain.
“This happens to a handful of other rivers in the Storm Margin, but all except Kith Masso are broad and shallow. Their ice crusts collapse, and their headwaters find ways round the ice. Kith Masso is different. It runs deep and narrow through a canyon of its own making. When its waters drain, its ice crust stays in place.”
“The Hollow River.” Raif could not keep the wonder from his voice.
“So we named it.” The Sull warrior sounded tired now. The horn and metal rings in his hair clicked softly in the wind. “To reach the cavern you seek, you must break through the ice crust and walk along the riverbed toward the mountain. Soon you will come to a tributary that feeds the river to the west. Take it. It is the only entrance to the Cavern of Black Ice.”
Ark Veinsplitter met eyes with Raif Sevrance. Snow whipped and swirled between them like clouds of tiny insects, each one delivering a sting of pure frost. Raif’s heart was pounding in his chest. He wanted to ask the warrior how he had known their destination, but something warned him the answer was best left unsaid. Later. There will be time for questions later, when Ash has visited the cavern and everything is done.
“The cavern can only be reached in winter when the waters that flow around it have drained. You are fortunate to have come when you did, Raif Sevrance of No Clan.” The tone of the warrior’s voice didn’t make Raif feel fortunate at all. Before he could speak, Ark said, “Come. We have stood too long under this cold, moonless sky. My scars ache like new wounds tonight.”
Raif followed him into the tent. Mal Naysayer was spreading fresh goose grease on the snowburns on Ash’s face. The Sull warrior with eyes the color of ice turned to look at his companion as he entered. An unspoken communication passed between the two, and Mal Naysayer stood and left Ash. Unlike Ark Veinsplitter, who had laid his weapons in arrangement around his sleeping mat, the Naysayer had a six-foot longsword couched in a harness at his back. Raif could not see the blade, but the hilt was cast from white metal, and its two-handed grip was wrapped with leather one shade lighter than black. The pommel was shaped like a raven’s head.
Raif let his dead man’s cloak
slide to the floor. It was the first time he had seen a raven’s likeness stamped on anything used by a man. All clans and cities had their badges, and many, like Croser and Spire Vanis, chose birds of prey, but none had claimed a raven for their own. Raif did not know what ravens meant in the Mountain Cities, but in the clanholds they meant just one thing: death. A ghost smile crossed Raif’s face. Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing to have on a sword after all.
“Raif Sevrance of No Clan, and Ash March, Foundling.”
Raif looked up as Ark Veinsplitter addressed him. The two Sull warriors were standing behind the firepit, the light from the flames glancing off the down-facing planes of their faces. They had spoken briefly in their own tongue, but Raif’s thoughts had been on Mal Naysayer’s weapon, and he had paid scant attention to the rough catch of their voices. Now, though, he saw that they had been discussing him and Ash, and they had come to a decision on something.
Instinctively Raif crossed to Ash, and the two parties faced each other across the smoke and flames of the firepit.
Ark Veinsplitter spoke. “My hass and I have spoken of your journey. Like us, you travel north, and like us also, your path leads beneath the shadows of Mount Flood. The Naysayer tells me that the new moon which rides tomorrow brings storms. He says that those burned once by the frost will likely burn again. And he ill likes the thought of the Foundling treading snow. To this end we offer to travel with you and take our axes to Kith Masso’s ice.”
“Ash March shall have my mount for the journey,” said the Naysayer in a voice so deep it made the air in the tent vibrate.
“And Raif Sevrance shall have mine.”
Raif looked from warrior to warrior, and finally to Ash. In the bright light of the wood fire her face looked paler and more drawn than before. It was too much to ask that she walk tomorrow; he knew that. But it didn’t stop him from wishing that she would turn their offer down.
