A Sword from Red Ice

EIGHT A Cart Pulled by Twelve Horses

"Raina. What d'you make of that?"

Raina Blackhail followed Anwyn Bird's gaze south across the Blackhail clanhold. They were standing on the ancient bowman's gallery that jutted from the roundhouses southern wall. Longhead said no one had been up here in decades, and Raina could see why. The gallery had been built on to the exterior dome by the War chief, Ewan Blackhail. Ewan's son had slain the last of the Dhoone kings, and Ewan had feared retaliation. Amongst his many hastily built defenses was a ringwall that circled the roundhouse at a distance of two hundred feet, a six-story watchtower built atop Peck's Hill in the eastern pinewall, and a series of booby-trapped wells and earthworks that ran along the Dhoone-Blackhail border and that, as far as Raina knew, had killed a whole lot of sheep. Five hundred years later and few of Ewan's creations were still standing. Judging from the cracked stonework and faint rocking motion of the ledge this one didn't have long to go.

Still. It was good to be here. The strange eastern wind was blowing, snapping the blackstone pines in the graze and pushing around the last of the snow. A red-tailed hawk was riding the thermals, scanning for weasels and other small prey through the bare branches of Oldwood. The sky was clear, and a cold and a brilliant sun was shining. Standing high atop the roundhouse you could see for leagues.

And no one but the person standing next to you could hear you speak. Raina glanced at her old friend, the clan matron Anwyn Bird. Anwyn was getting old. Her ice-tanned face was deeply lined, and her eyes had extra water in them. Not for the first time Raina found herself wondering why Anwyn drove herself so hard. She had never married, had no family that Raina was aware of, yet she had more strength of purpose than anyone in the entire clan. When she wasn't baking bread for two thousand, she was butchering winter kills in the gameroom milking ewes in the dairy, gutting eels in the kitchen yard, plucking geese on the poultry shed, distilling hard liquor in the stillroom, or fletching arrows in her workshop. Clan was her life. Comparing Anwyn s dedication with her own, Raina found herself wanting. Yet it was she, Raina Blackhail, who had spoken up in the gameroom.

I will be chief.

"Over there," Anwyn said, nodding her chin southwest. "At the tree-line."

Raina looked again and this time she saw something emerging from the black-green mass of the southern pines. A team of twelve horses was hauling a war earthward the roundhouse. The cart was built from whole glazed logs that shone red in the sun, and its weight was so great that it needed six wheel axles to support it. Black smoke gouted from a chimney built into the center of the roof. A pair of archers, crossbows loaded, prowled the roof's flat timbers, and a dozen heavily armed outriders formed a shield wall around the cart and team.

"Can you see their colors?"

Raina shook her head. "Dark, is all I can make out."

They watched in silence as the great, smoking behemoth lurched and rolled along the uneven surface of the graze road. Raina wondered if Anwyn was feeling the same level of unease as she was. Ever since the clanwars started all roads into the clanhold had been heavily patrolled. Redoubts had been built at key bends and crossings. Nothing could get this close to the roundhouse without sanction. So who had sanctioned this? And why hadn't she and Anwyn been informed?

"It's probably some war contraption brought in to defend the Crab Gate," Anwyn turned her back on the cart and looked Raina in the eye. The sudden movement made the fox lore suspended around her neck jump out from beneath the neckline of her dress. "The first thousand leave at dawn. Mace just told Orwin he intends to ride at the head."

Raina nodded sloMy, letting the news sink in. She had hoped her husband would lead the war party headed to Ganmiddich, but until now she hadn't been sure. Ever since Arlec Byce and Cleg Trotter had returned from the Crab Gate, the roundhouse had been gearing up for war. Weapons, armor, horses, mules, carts, supplies: all had to be assembled and coordinated. Mace had taken charge of the planning, but when asked if he intended to ride to defend Ganmiddich himself he had been evasive. He was a wolf, you could not forget that. Secrecy was one of his ploys. How could your enemies plot against you when they could not be sure of your plans?

"With Mace gone we should be able to restore some order to our house." It was the closest Anwyn had come to open criticism of the Hail chief since the night in the gameroom. She looked like she might say more, but Raina spoke to halt her.

"The repairs are going well. As soon as the remains of the Hailstone are removed we can seal the east wall."

"If they ever get removed," Anwyn retorted. "The one man who can decide the fate of the stone rides off into the sunrise at dawn. That's our soul, lying there and turning to dust. How can he stand by and watch as it blows away?"

"Hush," Raina whispered. Even out here she was nervous of her husband's spies. Little mice with weasels' tails. "If Mace rides tomorrow without reaching a decision it will suit us well enough. I will decide what will be done. I will see that the remains of the sixteenth Blackhail guidestone are laid to rest with proper dignity. Me, wife to two chiefs. And once it's done I'll send a party east to Trance Vor and command them to return with a new stone." Raina hardly knew where the words came from. Until the very moment she spoke them she had been dead set against interfering with the fate of the guidestone. That's how power works, she imagined. See an opportunity and seize it.

Muscles in Anwyn Bird's plump face tightened and Raina feared she had made a mistake. Yet the clan matron simply nodded. "Fair enough. Someone has to do it."

Raina searched Anwyn's gray eyes, but found them guarded. I will lose friends, she realized. Claim power and people will judge you. Suddenly Raina wanted very much to run through the roundhouse, finfcagro and crush him to her chest. It was so easy to conjure up his smell: horses and tanned leather, and that fine earthy scent that was his own. Gods, how she missed him. She did not want this. Did Anwyn actually think that she wanted to be chief? She would give up everything to have her husband back, willingly go and live in a mountain cave with the wild clans and eat nothing but rabbit haunches and tree bark for the rest of her life. You couldn't turn back time though. As a child she'd been told stories of dragons and sorcery and giants stories where forest folk abducted children while they slept and dragged them into enchanted worlds, where men were turned to stone by angry necromancers, and where the gods crushed entire armies in their fists and the next day built walls with the bones. Not one of those fantastical, unbelievable stories had ever mentioned turning back time. None had dared offer that false hope.

Anwyn could read people's thoughts, Raina decided, for she said, 'The past months have not gone easy on any of us, Raina. Loved ones dead. War. Hardship. And now the stone. Yet we are Blackhail, the first amongst clans, and we do not hide and we do not cower and we will have our revenge."

Hairs on Raina's arms pricked upright. The clan boast. Sending out a hand to steady herself against the stone balustrade, she let the east wind roll over her face. She smelled pine resin and frozen earth. Yes, she wanted revenge. Her husband had been slain in cold blood. Her body had been violated. Shor Gormalin, the man who would have protected her, had been shot in the back of the head. And what had she, Raina Blackhail, done to right those wrongs? Nothing. She shared a bed with the man who had done them.

Sister of Gods what have I let myself become?

Letting out a long breath, Raina studied Anwyn. It was unusual to see the bleached cross section of fox bone. The clan matron normally kept her lore tucked away. People often made the mistake of assuming Anwyn's lore had to be some kind of bird—pheasant, turkey vulture, hawk—but it wasn't. Anwyn was a fox. Raina hadn't learned that fact for many years, for lores were private things and it was considered impertinent to ask someone outright what spirit claimed them. Instead you learned through friends and kin. The widows knew the most, keeping tally each night around the hearth. Bessie Flapp had been the one to tell Raina that Anwyn was a fox. "She's a queer one, is our Anny. All hustle and bustle on the surface, but quiet as a fox underneath." kBessie was dead now, killed during the sundering. Raina had never known her to speak a word that wasn't true.

"Why do you push me, Anny?" Raina asked, surprising herself again. "Out of a whole roundhouse of people why should I be the one to overthrow him?"

Anwyn laid a hand on her skirt to stop the wind from getting under it. When she spoke the normal ruddiness dropped from her voice, revealing a deeper, clearer tone underneath. "Who else? Dagro wasn't the only one to die in the Badlands. Meth Ganlow, Tern Sevrance, Jon Shank: all could have been chief. Shor Gormalin was killed a month later. Who does that leave? Orwin claims he's too old. Good men like Corbie Meese and Bailie the Red are loyal to their chief. Someone has to oppose him. Blackhail must be saved."

"I was born at Dregg."

Tell me you don't consider yourself a Hailswoman."

Raina could not. She had lived in this house for seventeen years. Blackhail was her life.

Looking out across the gaze she saw that the war cart was stuck in a rut. The teamster had dismounted and was lashing the rumps of the lead pair of horses as four of the armed guards pushed their backs against the tailgate. The cart jerked sideways and then sank back down. More armed guards dismounted. Raina still couldn't discern their clan. Bannen, Dregg, Harkness, and Scarpe all wore dark colors on the road.

Raina turned her mind back to Anwyn. Manipulated, she decided finally. That's how she felt. Anwyn's use of the clan boast had been a jab in the small of her back. Anwyn was the real instigator here. She was the one who had arranged this meeting today, and the meeting before that in the gameroom. It was she who had invited Orwin Shank and the chief's wife and then sat back and waited to see which one was willing to speak treason. Looking into Anwyn's open, doughy face it was hard to understand why.

"What do you want out of this?" Raina asked finally, tired of thinking.

"Nothing." Anwyn held herself steady.

Raina inspected her. You could tell the truth, she decided, and still leave room for concealment. In this case she couldn't be sure. "I need to know where you stand, Anny."

The clan matron pushed her long graying braid behind her back. "I am with Blackhail, Raina. As long as you are the best hope for this clan I stand beside you."

Raina shivered. Here was the whole truth, and it was not comforting. Anwyn would stand by her as long as she approved of her actions. Suddenly weary, Raina turned her back on Anwyn and moved toward | the cast-iron half-door that led to the widows' hearth. Crouching low, she slipped inside. The room was hot and filled with people. Hatty Hare put her foot on the loom break and turned to look at the chiefs wife. Merritt Ganlow and one of the Shank boys were pushing a worktable against the wall. Two clan maids were kneeling on the floor, rolling up a carpet, a third girl was rubbing linseed oil into one of the stretching racks, and slender and lovely Moira Lull was crouching on the thick black hearthstone, feeding woodchips to the fire.

Raina moved aside to let Anwyn step into the room. Merritt nodded briskly at both of them. "Be ready day after tomorrow," she snapped.

It took Raina a moment to realize that Merritt was heading off questions about the preparations to accommodate the tied clansmen. The head widow had been dragging her heels for days, but Raina knew better than to mention it. The work was being done now; she would be grateful for that.

Anwyn put a hand on Rama's arm. "I best be heading back to the kitchen. I've a second bake to do today. The war party needs bread."

Raina followed her out of the room. When the carved wooden doors closed behind them and they were alone at the top of the stair, she said, "I will use Mace's absence to change things in thisthouse, but do not push me. I have respect for you, Anwyn, and we've been friends for many years, but don't assume that because you picked me for this I'm under your control. I will be my own master."

Seconds passed. Raina could hear the vast stone warren of the roundhouse grinding under its own weight. Anwyn's face was hard to read. In the time it took her to slip through the balcony's half-door she had tucked away her fox lore. Finally she pushed her lips together and nodded. "You need help, I'm here."

Raina hid her relief. Strangely, she didn't feel tired anymore. Mace would be leaving the roundhouse. Tomorrow. While he was gone she would take command of the clanhold. It was her duty as chiefs wife. Once the hole in the east wall was sealed she would ask Longhead to build a great big fortified barn, and when it was done she'd quarter the Scarpes there. Get them out of her house. "Thank you, Anwyn," she said.

Anwyn bustled. It was something she did with her shoulders and bosom, and it restored the matronly mask. "Can't stand around here gossiping all day. Busy times. Bad and busy."

She left Raina at the top of the stair. Raina felt giddy, light enough to float away. That's another thing about power: it goes to your head.

Suddenly the day seemed like something to enjoy, not endure. She would go and speak with Longhead about the remains of the stone hint that something would be done soon. Then she had to supervise the housing of Scarpes in her old quarters. Ventilation was bad there and she needed to be sure that no one brought in cook stoves. After that the day was her own. Maybe she'd saddle Mercy and take a ride out to the Wedge. Pay her respects to the dead horses that were being | buried there. Later she would be needed by the sworn clansmen.

A thousand warriors rode out tomorrow. Her attendance was their due.

"Lady."

Raina jumped. Turning around, she saw Bev Shank emerge from the widows' hearth. He'd been helping Merritt move the heavy machinery into storage. Bev couldn't be over twenty, yet like all the Shank boys he was losing his hair. He was a yearman, trained to the hammer, and his lore was the white-tailed deer.

"May I speak with you?"

He was deferential, as was proper for a yearman when faced with his chiefs wife. Raina replied soberly. "Of course."

Bev looked at his boots. The back of his neck was burned and peeling. Shank skin never did well in the sun. "It's about Drey… " He struggled for a moment and then spit it out. "Me and Grim ride to Ganmiddich tomorrow and we don't know what to tell him about Bitty."

The word had arrived from Black Hole five days back: Raif Sevrance had killed a sworn clansman in the mine. Drey's brother was a Maimed Man. Raina's stomach contracted softly. So much loss. When would it end?

"You must tell Drey the truth. Speak it plainly. You lost your brother that day. So did he."

This was a new thought for the young yearman, she could tell. Raif Sevrance was gone from this clan more surely than Bitty Shank. Bitty could be remembered, spoken of with respect and affection by friends and kin. Drey would never be allowed to speak his brother's name again. Raif Sevrance was a traitor to his clan.

Bev frowned, thought for a while, then slowly began to nod. "Aye, lady. Aye."

Raina laid a hand on his arm. "Bitty taught me how to tie lures, one morning when he came down to Sand Creek with me and Effie. We didn't catch a single fish, but it didn't matter. Bitty had us laughing. You know Effie: had to be dragged out of the roundhouse screaming. But she loved Bitty, and I swear that by the time Bitty waded knee-deep in the creek, ringing that special fish-catching song of his, she'd com-pletely forgotten she was outside."

Bcv smiled with a closed mouth, swallowing. "The song didn't rhyme," he said after a moment. "Didn't really have a tune either." "No. And it didn't help catch any fish."

Both of them laughed. There were tears in Bev's eyes. He was too young for this. So was she.

"Ride proud tomorrow, Bevin Shank," she said, lifting her hand away. "We are Blackball, and the Stone Gods made us first. When we die they welcome us back."

Bev's hazel eyes looked into hers. He surprised her by bowing at the waist. "You are good for us, lady. Good for this clan."

She wished with all her heart that he was right. Her doubts must be kept to herself, though. This boy had already lost three brothers. Tomorrow he would leave to reinforce Drey Sevrance and Crab Ganmiddich at the Crab Gate. She could not send hint to war without hope. "Clan will hold steady until you return."

It was a binding promise, she realized as soon as she spoke it. A thousand men rode tomorrow: they had to have something solid to return to. She, Raina Blackball, would make sure of that.

Bev accepted her words with a solemn nod. Taking his leave, he headed down the drafty stairs, doubtless making his way toward the greathearth and the sworn clansmen who were gathering there.

Raina held herself steady until he was long out of sight She breathed and did not think, refilling. Time passed. Sounds of men calling out, children laughing, dogs barking, axes splitting wood, doors opening and closing, and footsteps, thousands of footsteps, filtered up to the top of the house. Someone exited the widows' wall, passing her right by. A gust of wind spiraling up the stair brought the scent of fried onions and grilled lamb chops.

That made her move. Hungry, she descended the stairs. As always when she reached the lower levels of the roundhouse she had to cover her distaste. Once clean, echoing corridors had been turned into filthy camps. Scarpemcn and their women continued to burn their foul oil lamps, let their mangy house dogs run wild, and squat and shit in open view. A group of Scarpewives were feasting on lamb chops, sopping up the gravy with Anwyn's fresh bread. Raina averted her gaze as she passed them but not before she saw what they were drinking: Gat Murdock's Dhooneshine. She would know that old goat's bottles anywhere: he'd filched them from her ten years ago. Four brown-and-tan glazed toppers that had once been filled with womanly unctions. Dagro had bought them for her during a clanmeet in Ille Glaive. She'd long been reconciled to the fact that Gat Murdock had claimed them. Gat was Gat, and every clan had someone like him. This was different. This was theft. Never in a million years would Gat let strangers drink his brew. Generosity was a concept the aging swordsman had never grasped. No. Someone had found, fancied and stolen it.

A Scarpe. They were like termites, eating away at Blackhail's house, undermining its foundations. Raina considered turning back and wresting the Dhooneshine out of the Scarpewives' bony hands. Five of them against one of her? Probably not the best idea. Even if she won, dignity would be lost. News of the chiefs wife in a scrum with a bunch of Scarpers would provide the roundhouse with enough delighted gossip to last a week.

She hurried on. When she reached the ground floor, she found the fifteen-foot-high clan door drawn open and a crowd of tied and sworn clansmen milling around the entrance hall. Black, muddy snow carried in on boot soles had slickened the floor and grown men were slipping. Stepping back up the stairs, Raina searched for a friendly face. From the looks of things a messenger had arrived. A slender young clansman wearing a marmot-fur hat and a coat caked in road dirt appeared to be the center of attention. Spying the misshaped head of Corbie Meese, Raina beckoned the hammerman over.

"What's happening?" she asked as Corbie wended his way through the crowd.

Corbie was wearing the fine gray wool cloak his wife Sarolyn had made for him. Designed to be worn over battle armor and a full complement of weapons, it had taken three bolts of cloth to finish. When he moved it looked like his shadow. "Jamsie's come from Duff's. The Dhoonehouse has been taken by Robbie Dun Dhoone. Pengo Bludd's seized control of Withy, and is marching an army south to meet the city men."

Raina blinked. This was news. In the days since the Sundering Blackhail had grown inward, an animal licking its wounds. Yet the world didn't stop when a guidestone shattered. Here was proof. Struggling to make sense of what she'd just heard she said, "I thought Withy was already controlled by Bludd."

"It was. Hanro the Dog Lord's fourth son, has held it for the past three months. Seven days back Skinner Dhoone launched an assault-probably fancied Withy as a base to retake Dhoone. Looked like he might claim it, then along comes Pengo with his big army and crushes Skinner against the walls of the Withyhold. Jamsie says it was a bloodbath. Eight hundred Dhoonesmen dead. No word yet on Skinner. Some whisper he fled the field."

Raina went to touch the powdered guidestone at her waist and had to stop herself. The guidestone was dead: there was no comfort for her there. "Why didn't Robbie send men to reinforce his uncle?"

Corbie made a hard sound in his throat. "Robbie Dun Dhoone's a cold one. Rumor is that he planned it that way. While Skinner was busy attacking the Withyhoid, Robbie was free to steal a march on Dhoone."

"No." Raina couldn't quite believe it. No clansman would knowingly send fellow clansmen to their deaths. It was evil, and the Stone Gods would not pardon it.

Corbie nodded solemnly, following her thoughts. "Pray he never becomes our ally."

Raina would.

"Pengo's seized control of the Withyhold," the hammerman continued. "He's older than Hanro and higher in the pecking order. Jamsie says he hasn't let the grass grow. Couple of days to rest his crew and he headed out for Ganmiddich."

"Dear Gods. That was fast."

"When the win's upon a man, Raina, it does something to him. Makes him fierce and resolute." Corbie glanced toward the greatdoor as a new group of warriors arrived. "And remember, Pengo will know by now that the Dog Lord's been routed. The Dhoonehold's lost. There's no going back."

"What will happen? Will we still ride to defend Ganmiddich?"

"What choice do we have? The Crab Chief swore an oath to Blackhail. Ganmiddich is under our protection. Hailsmen walk the Crab Gate this very hour."

Raina took a breath. This was turning into a dangerous swamp. Only seven months ago the clanholds were at peace. Old rivalries brewed, borders were in dispute, water rights were claimed and defended. There were skirmishes and cattle raids, but no open warfare A year ago Dagro had stood in the chiefs chamber beneath this very hall and told her that once the feuding between Orrl and Scarpe was over he'd count his chiefdom a success. "The clanholds rest easy now Our boys are fostered as far as Haddo and Wellhouse, we have traded gifts with Frees, the Dog Lord is growing old and tame. Soon there'll be naught for me to do but stay abed with my pretty young wife."

He could not have been more wrong.

"We'll need to send more men" she said.

"Aye," Corbie agreed. "At least another thousand. Maybe more." His mind was no longer quite with her, she realized. He was thinking of Drey Sevrance, Bullhammer, Tom Lawless, Lowdraw, Rory Cleet and the two hundred other Hailsmen who were garrisoned at Ganmiddich. He was waiting for his chief, anxious to have the matter settled and be on his way to defend them.

It shamed her, for she could not stop herself from thinking, Please do not let this delay Mace's departure. It would be so easy for him to decide to send the first thousand south and travel with the second contingent. She might be damned, but she didn't think she could stand another day of him. Just to rest, to lay her head on a pillow and not have to worry about what the next moment might bring. Ever since the day in the Oldwood she had known no peace of mind. Always, it was: What will Mace do next? Does he know what I'm thinking? Can he tell how much I despise him?

Raina straightened her shoulders and willed her mind away from the dark place. If she stayed there too long he won.

"Where is my husband?" she asked Corbie.

The hammerman flexed the huge saddles of muscle on his upper arms. "As soon as he spied that big wagon out on the graze he took off. He's escorting it in right now."

Raina glanced at the door. She heard voices from outside but couldn't see anything beyond the great crush of clansmen on the threshold. She heard herself ask in a calm voice, "Do you know what the wagon s about?"

Corbie shook his misshapen head. "I best go, Raina. Meet him at the door."

The east wind was howling through the roundhouse now, pushing men's cloaks against their thighs and blowing out torches. From her place, three steps up, Raina could see the great circle of the entrance hall. She watched Corbie navigate the crowd, listened to the rumble of something heavy approaching.

Suddenly there was a great push toward the door. Raina thought she heard Mace's voice, but she couldn't be sure. Clansmen were shout-ing out the news.

"Bludd rides to Ganmiddich." "Dhoone is retaken."

Raina's heart beat in deep powerful strokes. A lamp close by blew out, then another. She smelled the strong black smoke of extinction. On the other side of the doorframe a conference was taking place. She knew Mace was there now, for his presence could be detected in the silences. Men were quiet, listening.

A lone clansman cheered. Another followed, and soon over a hundred clansmen were shouting, "Kill Bluddl Bill Bludd! Kill Bludd!"

Mace had pleased them. He must have spoken again, for the noise quickly died. A group of hammermen broke away and headed through the roundhouse with purpose. Corbie Meese wasn't one of them. Raina resisted the urge to run after them and discover what was happening. She was desperate to know and desperate not to know, her mind rolling back and forth like a boat in a storm.

Orwin Shank was the next to make his way inside. His face and ears were flushed. As he crossed the hall he saw her, but quickly averted his eyes. Like a sleepwalker, Raina began descending the stairs. Men made way for her, opening up a passage to the door. She was chief's wife, and sometimes she forgot her value. Scarpes had no respect for her, but this was a crowd of Hailsmen, not Scarpes. Walking into the space they created for her, Raina felt the heat of their bodies. Big, powerful men they were, dressed in black wool and worn leather, their bodies weighed down with hammers and longswords, axes and gear belts, knives, ice picks, shovels.

"Do we still ride tomorrow?" she asked no one in particular.

A dozen replied, "Aye, lady."

Sunlight from the door blinded her. "And my husband, does he still ride at the head?"

Bailie the Red placed a steadying hand on her elbow. She had not realized she had begun to sway. "Mace will ride with the first thousand as planned," he told her in his rough burr. "The second force will be led by Grim Shank."

Bailic smells like beeswax, she thought inanely. Probably uses it to waterproof his bow. She stepped outside. For a moment she couldn't see anything, so great was the contrast between the dark, smoky entrance hall and the harsh sunlight of midday. Man-shapes coalesced from the brightness. The blocklike form of the war cart came into view. Seen this close it was bigger than she had imagined, a stovehouse on twelve wheels. The teamster was releasing the lathered and shaking horses from their yokes.

"Who'll be in charge of defending the Hailhouse while they're gone?" she asked the nearest warrior.

"Chief gave Orwin the honor."

She did not recognize the young Hailsman's voice, and did not turn to look at him. Her thoughts were like beads, connected only by the slenderest thread. So far so good. Orwin Shank was the best, most logical choice. He would not interfere with her plans.

When she was ready, she turned her gaze to her husband. Mace Blackhail was standing by the wagon's front axle, speaking with two men. One was the Scarpeman Mansal Stygo, who was never far from Mace's heels. Mansal had killed the Orrl chief with a hammer blow so hard it had driven Spynie's head into his chest cavity. A month later Mace had invited Mansal and his crew to overwinter in the Hailhouse. The second man had his back to Raina. He had the shoulder breadth of a hammerman, but something in his posture warned her there was more to know. His ful-length cloak was narrow across the back and oddly formal. The fur collar was a deep, luxurious brown; she couldn't decide what animal it came from. By contrast the cloak's hem was in poor shape, tattered and black with mud. When the stranger noticed Mace's attention shift away from him, he turned to see who the Hail Wolf was regarding.

Raina Blackhail stared right back.The flesh on the stranger's cheeks had been scarified and tattooed to create the illusion of depth. Sunlight disappeared into carefully manipulated pits in the skin. He was a Scarpe, she saw that now, for black leather traces were woven into his shoulder-length braids and his fur collar was the fancy weasel known as mink. He appraised her, there was no other word for it, looked her up and down and decided what she was worth.

Mace spoke a word and the three of them moved toward her. Three Scarpes. One plan. Raina kept her shoulders straight as the pieces came together in her head. The wagon. The cloak hem. Mace's face.

"Raina." Mace's voice was tightly controlled. Beneath the hardened leather carapace of his riding armor, his lungs were portioning air. "I don't think you've met Stannig Beade, clan guide of Scarpe and counsel to its chief. He's brought us a gift from his clan."

Dear Gods. No. Wind knifed across the greatcourt. Hammer chains rustled, dry snow snaked over the stones. Everything that was Blackhail was being blown away, and she had been a fool to imagine that she could be the one to stop it. Raina glanced at the wagon. The sawn ends of the poison pines were oozing sap. Poor Anwyn. She had not seen this coming. But the gods had. That's why they left.

Unable to find her voice, Raina nodded at the stranger with the darkly watchful face.

"Raina." He did not bow; she had not expected him to. Nor had he offered her the courtesy of "lady."

"Stannig has split the Scarpestone," Mace said, raising his voice so all gathered on the greatcourt could hear. "Today he brings us our half. Blackhail is no longer a clan without guide or guidestone. For a thousand years we've shared warriors and oaths with our brother clan, now we share their stone."

Silence followed. The wind blew. And then Mace Blackhail spoke again. "Stannig will stay in our house until the Stone Gods return.