CHAPTER
13
Enemies All Along
“YOUR MARE HAS Sull
in her,” Chella Gloyal said, mounting her own glossy gray stallion.
“Does she have a fifth gait?”
Raina patted Mercy’s
head. “Yes. When she has a fancy to she can move forward and
sideways at the same time.”
“That would be
something worth seeing.” Chella kicked her boot heels into her
stallion’s belly and walked the horse across the hard cattle court
at Blackhail.
Raina followed on
Mercy. Even though she was wary of the Croserwoman’s flattery, she
couldn’t help but be pleased by it. Mercy had been a gift from
Dagro: praise the horse he’d chosen and you praised him
too.
“Have you been to the
Wedge?” Raina asked, nodding toward the upland to the
east.
“Several times. Let’s
go north instead.”
Raina was surprised
but did not show it. Chella had been in the roundhouse under twenty
days yet had managed the four-hour roundtrip to the Wedge several
times? Who had taken her? Glancing at the Croserwoman’s cool,
self-possessed profile Raina suspected she had an answer. Chella
Gloyal had taken herself.
With a squeeze of her
thighs, Raina coaxed Mercy into a canter and pulled ahead of the
Croserwoman. It was an hour after dawn and the frost was still
sparkling. Sheep were cropping tender shoots of oatgrass and wild
carrot along the trail, and Raina grinned as the fuzzy creatures
sprang into motion to avoid Mercy. She seldom rode due north from
the roundhouse. The forest of great black evergreens did not please
her. Yet that was what Chella had requested, and Raina was
reluctant to let the Croserwoman know that she found the dimness of
the blackstone pines unnerving.
They rode an hour in
silence before entering the trees. Chella was a natural horsewoman,
back straight, shoulders relaxed. Ewemen stopped in their tracks to
admire her. Somewhere along the way her hair had slipped free of
its ties and dark chestnut tresses spilled down her back. Raina
envied her. She was young, beautiful, newly-wed to a good man who
adored her. Her life stretched out before her, full of possibility
and hope.
Was that how I looked when I first wed Dagro? Raina
wondered. Surely not. I was never that
confident.
Chella took the lead
on the forest trail. Snow was still thick on the ground here. Dry,
crunchy and littered with pine needles, it crackled as the horses’
hooves punched its surface. Mercy followed Chella’s stallion so
closely their prints formed a single line.
“Is this one of the
trails leading to the mine?”
Raina had been so
wrapped in her own thoughts, she was surprised when Chella spoke.
“Black Hole?” she said, buying herself a moment.
Chella glanced over
the shoulder. “Yes.”
Raina wondered about
the question, but could see no harm in answering it. “You can get
to Black Hole this way, but most miners take the cart road to the
east.”
“I heard the mine is
closing.”
Raina looked at the
back of Chella’s head. She, Raina Blackhail, chief’s wife, had
heard no such thing. Quickly she searched her memory for recent
mention of Blackhail’s sole working silver mine, Black
Hole.
“A party of Blackhail
miners arrived at Croser just before I left,” Chella said, reining
her stallion to draw abreast of Raina. “They came looking for work
in the iron fields. As they told it, the Hailhouse was full to the
rafters and there wasn’t enough room for them”
Raina got the
distinct impression that Chella was well aware this was news to the
chief’s wife. “There is always room for tied clansmen at
Blackhail,” she said stiffly. “They were mistaken.”
Chella executed the
smallest possible shrug. “Of course you are right.”
Agreement flummoxed
Raina: she had been stirring for a fight. What was it about Chella
Gloyal that provoked her so? She was an outsider, a clanwife whose
only claim to respect was through her husband. Deciding to take
control, Raina said, “The trail widens here. Let’s stop and
rest.”
“If we ride on for a
few minutes we’ll find a clearing.”
Raina
blinked.
“You’re correct,”
Chella said, plucking the question from Raina’s face. “I’ve never
entered these woods before, but I read trail marks. A while back
they indicated a site to rest and water the horses.”
“You hunt?” Raina
asked, voice still stiff.
“A little,” Chella
turned in the saddle and smiled knowingly at Raina, “if I have
to.”
There was no way to
reply to that so Raina didn’t try. She was beginning to regret
inviting the Croserwoman to ride with her this morning. In the
stables three days back, Chella had told her she had made two
mistakes. Raina had heard the account of her first mistake and
could not fault it—she had no experience of planning a war
party—and today she had planned on hearing her second mistake. Now
she found herself wishing she hadn’t given Chella Gloyal and her
opinions so much credit.
As the Croserwoman
predicted, the trail led to a clearing around a small creek. A log
had been sectioned to form seats and another formed a bridge across
the water. Raina dismounted and led Mercy to the creek. She could
smell smoke and char from recent campfires. How could she have
lived twenty years at Blackhail and never before stepped foot in
this place?
Resisting the urge to
question Chella about the clearing, Raina said, “You spent time in
Morning Star.”
Chella slid off her
stallion and joined Raina by the creek. “You have been speaking
with my husband.”
It was not a question
and Raina did not answer. Chella must keep close track of her
information if she could be so sure that no one at Blackhail save
her husband, Grim Shank, could furnish basic facts about
her.
Crouching, Chella
stripped off her gray leather gloves and tested the temperature of
the water. Raina swore she could feel her thinking.
“My mother had family
in the city and I lived there for three years.”
“Consecutively?”
Chella raised an
eyebrow. “No. Two separate visits.”
Raina remained calm.
She had hardly known where the question came from, but she knew it
was to her advantage to pretend otherwise. She said quietly, “I
will not tolerate you spying on me again. Your husband has gone to
Bannen and you are alone in my house. Do not make me cast you out.”
I have killed a man in cold blood,
Raina Blackhail thought. If the Stone Gods are
listening this moment they can surely hear it in my
voice.
Chella Gloyal rose to
standing. She had a bow callus on her right thumb, Raina
noticed.
“I apologize for my
actions in the stables.” The Croserwoman’s voice was level and she
looked Raina straight in the eye. “It won’t happen
again.”
She hadn’t been
caught, Raina realized quite suddenly. If Chella had chosen to she
could have kept her presence in the horse stall a secret. Which
made her fine words nothing more than a promise to keep herself
better hidden next time. Raina ran a hand across her forehead.
Gods, I’m no good at this.
Waving the apology
aside, she said, “You might as well tell me what you believe my
second mistake was.”
“You sent away your
friends.”
Wind moved the trees
and lifted Raina’s braid from the back of her neck. Overhead, she
caught sight of a red-tailed hawk and she had a sense of how she
must look from above: a figure isolated in a forest of dark trees.
Orwin Shank and Corbie Meese: her two most powerful and loyal
allies had departed the Hailhouse at her request. She had been so
intent on caretaking Blackhail’s treasure, she had not thought to
care-take herself.
Dagro, come back to me my love. I need
you.
The wind died and the
hawk sailed west. Time did not reverse itself. Raina waited, but it
didn’t.
Looking carefully at
Chella she said, “I can look after myself.”
Chella’s green-gray
gaze was steady and knowing. “I don’t doubt it.”
They moved apart.
Raina went to pay her respects to Chella’s beautiful horse. The
stallion had found fresh fern shoots on the east side of the
clearing and was plucking them delicately with his lips. As Raina
approached he raised his head in greeting. Raina patted and
scratched him. Something about the sleekness of his cheekbones and
nose reminded her vaguely of Mercy.
“He has Sull in him
too. One eighth.” Chella had come to stand beside her. “You can
tell straightaway if you look in his eyes.” Holding the horse’s
cheek strap, Chella turned the creature’s head, presenting its
right eye for Raina’s inspection. “See the tiny flecks of white in
the iris? The Sull call them xhi a’lun,
the moon and stars.”
Raina smiled with
wonder.
Chella smiled along
with her. “Mercy has them too. Just a few.”
Something had
happened between them at the creek and Raina was still trying to
figure out what it was. They had both revealed something to each
other, but she could not decide the nature of those revelations.
Had they exposed hidden weapons or vulnerabilities?
Maybe
both.
Raina reminded
herself to be cautious. Chella was like no Croserwoman she had ever
met. She was secretive and opinionated and too sure of herself by
far.
“I have treats.”
Chella said, reaching inside her saddlebag, “to reward ourselves
for coming this far.” She pulled out a red tin box, well made with
a crafty hinge and clasp, and a small flask insulated with rabbit
fur. “Grab the blanket and we’ll sit on one of the
logs.”
She was from Croser
and perhaps they lived by different rules there, so Raina
overlooked the impertinence of Chella directing a chief’s wife.
Raina took the blanket that had been rolled and fastened behind the
saddle and spread it over the closest log. She was hungry. And she
couldn’t recall the last time she’d had anything that could be
called a treat.
“Drink.” Chella
handed her the unstoppered flask and Raina did as directed. The
liquid was cool and dry and tasted of pears. Raina felt it moving
through her body like smoke through an empty house.
“My grandfather
distilled it,” Chella said, laying out items between herself and
Raina on the log. “He owned a pear orchard on the south banks of
the Wolf.”
That meant wealth.
“It’s delicious.”
“He would have been
happy to hear that.” Chella took the flask from Raina and drank.
For a moment the Croserwoman’s gaze lengthened, and Raina imagined
she was remembering the past. “So. We have smoked trout, soft
cheese and candied plums from Croser—and fresh bread purloined from
the kitchens at dawn.”
She had thought of
everything, including little glazed dishes and a round-bladed knife
for the cheese. Raina mashed trout into a hunk of bread. “At Dregg
I used to eat smoked fish every day for breakfast. Hailsfolk have
little taste for it. They don’t care for water or anything that
lives in it.”
“No clan’s perfect.”
Chella pushed a plum between her lips, chewed and swallowed. “Or
any chief.”
Raina turned her
attention to the wedge of soft, ripe cheese and did not take the
bait. Chella was forward—no one without due respect should speak of
chiefs to a chief’s wife—yet although Raina felt offense, she also
felt the pull of the younger woman’s lawlessness. Who was she? And
why had she chosen to marry Grim Shank and travel north to his
clan? Surely she would have seen more of her husband if she’d
stayed at Croser? She had to know Grim would return to
war.
“It’s said that
Wrayan Castlemilk took the warrior’s oath when she was thirteen.”
Done with eating, Chella swiped crumbs from her skirt. “Her brother
held her swearstone until his death. She took it from his corpse
and now keeps it herself.”
“Do you know Angus
Lok?”
For the first time in
twenty days, Raina saw Chella Gloyal look uncomfortable. Raina
hardly knew what had made her ask the question—just some half-baked
idea that the story about the Milk chief was the sort of thing
Angus Lok liked to tell. Little stories with a purpose. With a
push.
The Croserwoman began
to wrap the remains of the food. “I have met Angus Lok, yes. He
used to come to Croser to trade news and small goods.”
Raina stood. “Let’s
head home.”
She felt Chella’s
gaze on her back as she went to collect Mercy. For a reason
apparent only to herself, Mercy was standing midstream in the creek
and had to be coaxed to the bank. Ideas were swirling in Raina’s
head. She needed to ride so she could think.
Once Mercy had taken
a trail she never forgot it, so Raina gave the horse her head. They
didn’t wait for Chella and the stallion. It was close to midday but
the forest was still cool. Raina wondered if the snow between the
pines would ever melt. Riding from the tree line into grazes and
open fields was like punching into another world. The sun was warm
here and the snow was slushy and mixed with mud.
So mention of Angus
Lok had caught Chella Gloyal off-guard. Why? What did they have in
common? Both were outsiders to Blackhail and both had lived in the
Mountain Cities . . . and both liked to interfere with other
people’s lives. Oh Angus Lok was a good deal more subtle about it,
but then he had a good twenty years on this girl. And that was
another thing. Grim Shank, Gods love him, was a fine warrior and a
good son but he didn’t match his new wife in demeanor, intelligence
or looks. With all her charms Chella could have had her pick of
men, yet she had chosen Grim. At the creek Raina had seen something
in Chella’s eyes. Intent, purpose: something.
Did she have
something invested here? Certainly she found Raina Blackhail
wanting and was not shy about pointing it out.
Enough, Raina told herself. Too much thinking.
Dagro had rarely strained himself with excess cogitation—and he
would never let it hinder his enjoyment of a fine
ride.
Pressing her boot
heels into Mercy’s flank, she galloped the final league to the
roundhouse. Chella kept apace, though her stallion could easily
have outrun Mercy if he’d been allowed to. By the time they reached
the cattle turnout, both horses were lathered. Raina turned to
Chella and grinned, and Chella grinned right back.
“Wonderful,” she
said.
Raina agreed. They
trotted their horses toward the stables in companionable silence.
Cows had been turned out onto the hard standing and herders and
dairymen were busy managing the herd. Raina was glad to see
livestock on its way to pasture. It meant spring. Once the grass
started coming in there would be less pressure on the dry stores
and that was something else to be glad about. Raina decided not to
worry about the grain level. Not today.
“Chief’s.” The
dairyman, Neddic Bowes greeted Raina with the shortened version of
the title “chief’s wife.” Dressed in a big red apron over dairy
whites and knee waders, Neddic was hard to miss. “Back in time for
the excitement, eh? Must have known it was coming.”
The band of muscle
between Raina’s gut and lungs tensed. Outside she remained calm.
“Well,” she said, thinking furiously and beginning to regret her
second helping of pear spirits. “Little happens around here without
me knowing about it.” Then, to the groom who had come forward to
take possession of Mercy, “Box the stallion. I’ll ride Mercy onto
the greatcourt.” She spoke loudly enough so that Chella, who was a
length behind, heard the instruction. It was an order, and both the
groom and Chella Gloyal understood it: the stallion and its rider
stay here, at the stables.
Raina rode on. She
felt as if she was leaving her old life behind, that the path to
the front of the roundhouse was a tunnel and she would emerge from
it into a remade world. She knew her clan. What she’d heard in
Neddic Bowes’ voice and seen in the face of the groomsman already
told her much of what she needed to know: Harm was coming to
Blackhail.
People were already
gathering ahead of her. Stonemasons and builders had left their
work on the new outbuildings and were forming small groups on the
greatcourt. The clandoor was open and warriors, women and children
were spilling out. Raina’s eyes jumped to the Scarpes. Something
was different. Many of them were formally dressed, in black fronts,
leather paneling and weasel pelts. All were armed.
Raina noted their
numbers and felt fear.
You sent away your friends.
A mounted company was
closing distance from the south. When they reached the gravel rode,
they fanned out in a classic “flight of geese” formation,
displaying the high status of their leader. Two standard-bearers
flanked the head rider. Six-foot poles held firm in saddle horns
flew the black and brown of Scarpe. Weasel and poison
pine.
Sweet gods. It was the Scarpe chief, Yelma Scarpe,
sitting closed-legged on a huge brown mare fitted with a cushioned
saddle seat. The instant Raina recognized her, Yelma Scarpe’s thin
lips stretched to something resembling a smile. I’m ahead of you, the expression
conveyed.
Watching the Scarpe
chief’s face Raina made a series of decisions. Quickly she scanned
the crowd. Singling out the young hammerman Pog Bramwell, she
issued orders in a low voice. “Swift now,” she told him, gaze
flicking to the mounted company. “When you’re done come and stand
at my back.”
Pog Bramwell, all of
seventeen and still hoping to use a razor daily, bowed his head.
Fine golden hairs at the back of his neck defied the jurisdiction
of his warrior’s queue. “Aye, lady.”
Raina kicked Mercy
forward so horse and rider stood ahead of the crowd. Yelma had
gained the greatcourt and her party was slowing. Now they were
closer, Raina saw that the saddle seat had armrests—like a
throne—and Yelma’s bony bejeweled fingers rested on leather pads.
In a show of horsemanship, she held the reins in the crook of her
left thumb.
Two months ago, on
the day of Anwyn Bird’s death, Longhead had warned that the Scarpe
chief was planning a visit. “When the snow is off the ground,” he’d
said. It did not take a wise man to scan the great rolling mass of
the southern graze and see snow. It lay in gray heaps at the side
of the road, in the northern shadows of hills and hummocks, in the
wells of trees, and in slushy pools upon low ground. That meant
Yelma had come early. So either she meant to take the Hailhold by
surprise, or receipt of Stannig Beade’s corpse had stirred her from
the Weasel chair before planned.
It did not matter,
Raina realized. The one thing you need to know
about weasels, Dagro had once said, is
they eat the head first.
Raina swallowed. The
urge to dismount was strong but she fought it, making herself sit
back in the saddle and relax. It was a declaration and she, Yelma
Scarpe and everyone of the greatcourt knew it. There was no going
back now. Raina Blackhail had declared herself equal to the Weasel
chief.
Do and be damned.
Let my chiefship begin.
Almost on cue, Raina
heard the sound she’d been waiting for: the bass rumble of the
greatdoor sliding closed along its track. The sound tolled across
the court, changing everyone who heard it. Warriors’ pupils dilated
as they checked the readiness of their weapons and the layout of
the available space. Women drew their children closer. Old men
wished for their youth. The bond between Blackhail and Scarpe
snapped with force, creating enemies so hostile one could not doubt
that they had hated each other all along.
You could not move
time backward, Raina realized, but you could move it forward. With
the order to shut the door on the Scarpe chief, she, Raina
Blackhail, had made a new Age.
Out of the corner of
her eye, she saw her guard assemble itself around her. Hardgate
Meese, father to Corbie, was at her right. He had taken a kidney
wound at Ganmiddich but she doubted he would let it show. Ballic
the Red and Tannic Crow, the two finest bowmen remaining in the
house, were at her left. Yearmen and graybeards made up the rest of
her crew. Lyes and Murdocks, Ganlows and Gormalins, Bannerings and
Onnachres: old families whose loyalty she was now counting on. Her
two most valuable allies—Orwin Shank and Corbie Meese—were gone and
she could not say what would happen here without them.
Yelma Scarpe gave a
signal to her company, bringing them to a halt thirty paces from
where Raina sat Mercy and leveling them to a single line. It
occurred to Raina that an artist could render a likeness of the
Scarpe chief without ever drawing a curve. She was dressed in stiff
brown silk embroidered at the hem and cuffs with an unlovely design
of weasel heads and pine cones. Her jewels, aggressively
substantial, threw sparks.
“Welcome,” Raina
said. She could hear the ride to the northern woods in her voice,
the flatness following a long exertion. Raina hoped it passed for
calm. “We are glad you have come.”
The sun was behind
the Scarpe chief, making it difficult to read her face. Seconds
passed. Was she looking at the crowd outside the greatdoor,
head-counting the resident Scarpes? Her fingers curled against the
armrests of her chair.
“Woman,” she said. “I
came here at the request of your chief, as a friend to Blackhail in
time of war. It is an ill house that bars its door against its
allies and an unsound mind that would issue such an order. Pray
fetch the senior Hailsmen. I would speak with those in
charge.”
At her side, Raina’s
guard did not move. Raina listened for sounds from the crowd behind
her—any sign that Hailsmen and Scarpes were dividing into camps—but
blood was pumping through her ears and she couldn’t be sure if
anyone stirred. For a certainly she would not betray her fear by
looking around.
She raised her chin.
“You speak with me. The door is barred because we are full and will
take no more Scarpes. We will be glad to have you camp on the west
field.” Raina raised her right hand toward the cleared ground to
the right of the roundhouse. Grooms had been using it as a
makeshift practice ring and dead grass, snow and horse pats had
been churned into brown muck. “And will provide such tents as you
may need.”
Even before she’d
finished speaking, Yelma Scarpe made a tiny signal with her index
finger, lifting it from the leather pads. Straightaway, Raina heard
the snick of steel drawn from leather.
The sound came from the door. A half-second later, Yelma Scarpe’s
two standard-bearers threw down their flagstaffs and went for their
weapons. Another half-second later the entire company drew arms.
Raina inhaled sharply. All possible outcomes revolved in her mind.
All consequences of issuing the command for Hailsmen to attack
Scarpes were laid bare.
This meant
war.
Raina Blackhail
raised her arm.
Thuc.
An arrow sliced
through air. Thuc. Thuc. Thuc. Three
more hit in quick succession. Freezing in midsignal, Raina followed
their trajectories. Two arrows vibrated in each of the Scarpe
standards, pinning the black and brown canvas to the ground.
Fletched with sparrow feathers and nocked with copper wire, the
arrowshafts bore no identifying marks. Raina calculated they had
been fired from the roof of the new construction that butted the
roundhouse’s eastern wall.
All was still for a
moment. Yelma Scarpe closed both fists around her reins. The four
shots had been expertly aimed—ten feet to either side of her
mare—and it wasn’t hard to imagine a fifth arrow in her chest. She
and her company might win a pitched battle on the greatcourt, but
she could not take on a bowman firing from high ground. Not without
body armor. Not without a bowman of her own positioned on higher
ground. She would die. The arrows told it as simply as
that.
Seizing the
advantage, Raina flung out her arm toward the standards. “Do not,”
she told Yelma Scarpe, “make the mistake of ordering an attack on
Blackhail. Leave now before blood is spilt between allies and while
my bowmen still possess the will to hold their strings.” As she
spoke the sun passed behind clouds and she received her first close
look at the Weasel chief. Yelma Scarpe looked just like her nephew
Mace Blackhail. It made Raina’s voice as hard as
nails.
Yelma Scarpe’s gaze
flicked to the new construction then back to Raina. “You will die
for those arrows, woman. I came here in friendship, to offer
protection to Blackhail while its warriors and chief are away at
war. Now some clanwife with no authority or due respect dares order
me shot. I am chief. And you have made yourself my enemy.” Pulling
on the reins, she turned the mare. The entire company moved in
unison, reversing their formation on her signal.
Swiveling in the
saddle chair, Yelma looked back at Raina. “Let your one consolation
be this: You will not wait many days in dread of me.”
With that, she drove
a single, spurred heel into horseflesh and exploded into
motion.
Steady, Raina warned herself as she watched Yelma’s
company follow their leader south across the grazelands.
Fainting would not look
good.
Behind her, the crowd
began to move and speak. She heard angry grunts and worried
whispers. A baby started to cry. Ignoring them Raina made herself
watch the Scarpe retreat. If Yelma looked around she would see
Raina Blackhail, chief, staring right back.
“You could have told
me you’d put someone on the roof.” It was Ballic the Red. Raina had
forgotten the master bowman was there. “It was a fine strategy but
it would have been good to know.”
Raina said nothing.
Instinctively she knew there would be nothing to gain and much to
lose by informing Ballic that she had not directed the marksman to
the roof, let alone ordered him to fire warning shots. She had to
be practical now, and that included taking credit when it wasn’t
due. This thing she had set in motion would gain mass. The Scarpe
chief would make sure of that. She was probably composing a message
for Mace right now from her throne-like chair.
I am damned.
But she would not
think about that. Turning toward the roundhouse, Raina scanned the
roof of the new construction. Whoever had taken it upon themselves
to shoot was gone. Good. That was another thing she would deal with
later. Right now she had to eject every last Scarpe from the
Hailhouse. She could not afford to have enemies on the other side
of that door.
Quietly she addressed
Ballic, Hardgate and Tannic Crow. All three were grave. Armed
Scarpe warriors watched as they spoke. Armed Hailsmen watched the
Scarpes. Raina wished for the calm authority and practical
experience of Orwin Shank. Chella Gloyal could not have spoken
truer words this morning: It had been a grave mistake to send him
to Dregg.
Was this a mistake
too?
Raina surveyed the
Scarpes in their black and braided leather with their dyed hair and
poison pine tattoos. She could not stand them.
“Good riddance,” she mouthed. It would be a relief
to have them gone.