“It’s the heart,” Chella Gloyal said, raising the tip of Raina’s right elbow. “All archery targets are the heart. Release.”

Raina released as she had been instructed, lifting her three middle fingers from the string. Air cracked against her ear as the arrow exploded from the plate. The string ricocheted forward, thrashing her left wrist. Raina winced. A C-shaped line of blood instantly appeared on her skin and she looked at it with a kind of puzzled wonder. She’d had no idea archery was so violent.

“Here. You can put this on now.” Chella took the bow from Raina and handed her a three-inch-wide strap of leather, a wrist guard.

Raina wiped the blood on her sleeve and began the awkward struggle of fastening the guard against her wrist. Chella watched. Raina’s fingers felt big and her wrist was smarting. A series of scars, at different stages of healing, stretched from her wrist to her lower arm.

“They’re like widow’s weals,” she murmured, thinking about the cuts widowed Hailswomen inflicted upon themselves to relieve the pain of losing husbands.

Chella Gloyal wasn’t impressed by this comparison. “They’re a lot more useful,” she said.

Raina let the remark go unchallenged. Chella was young and her husband was alive. What did she know about the very few ways the pain of loss could be eased? Finished with the wrist guard buckles, Raina said, “Hand me the bow. I’m taking another shot. I notice you didn’t pass comment on the last one.”

“Silence is louder.”

Raina couldn’t help but agree with that as she took her next shot.

They were on the graze north of the Hailhouse but south of the northern woods. The Leak, the stream that ran past the roundhouse, was flowing high at their backs. Chella had set up a target on the trunk of an oak: a melon-sized circle drawn in chalk. Raina had taken two shots already, but both of them had missed. Only one had hit the tree. It was her fourth archery lesson and this time Chella had made her stand at a distance of thirty feet—ten feet farther than yesterday. To add to the difficulty, the wind was shearing from the east.

“Let the bow follow your eye not the other way around. Elbow higher. Your knuckle should graze your ear. Hold.”

Raina held. The string was cutting into the meat of her fingertips and her entire body was at tension like the bow.

“Release.”

The arrow shot from the plate. The string whacked her arm but the guard protected it. Thuc. The arrow hit the tree, a foot above the target.

Chella did some more of her silent instructing, letting Raina work out for herself what she had done wrong. She needed to lower her bow arm and not overpower the shot. She said, “If the target’s the enemy’s heart at least I would have got his head.”

“No. You would have missed the head. The head’s small and there’s always more air around it than you think. That’s why we never target it.”

“But the heart?”

“Miss it and we might puncture a gut or blow a lung instead. Miss the head and while we’re reaching for another arrow we’ll get shot through the arm—if we’re lucky.”

It occurred to Raina that the more she got to know Chella Gloyal the less she sounded like a clanswoman. Was Croser that different than Blackhail? Or was there something more to Chella? Raina thought she’d better watch her just to be safe.

Chella handed Raina another arrow. “Only use one eye to sight the target this time and keep your chin down.”

Raina did as she was told and managed a serviceable shot, grazing the target’s upper boundary.

“Fair,” Chella told her. “We probably need to release some of the tension in the string. It looks a little tight for you.”

Raina handed off the bow. It had belonged to Anwyn Bird. Raina had found it, still strung, in Anwyn’s workshop. She watched Chella as the Croserwoman expertly unpicked the complicated array of knots at the tip. “Who taught you to shoot?”

“My father. He wanted a boy.”

“He taught you well.”

Chella’s fingers danced along the string. “I practiced a lot. I used to bowfish in the Wolf.” She smiled when she saw Raina’s expression. “You can’t call yourself any kind of bowman until you’ve shot a fish in running water.”

“I’ve never heard of fishing with a bow.”

“It’s a Croser thing. Our bowmen are a little mad.”

Raina laughed. She had begun to enjoy her mornings with Chella. The girl was full of surprises. “Did your father give you your bow? It doesn’t look clannish.”

Chella glanced at the shortbow strung over her shoulder. It was a built bow, Raina knew that much, made from pieces glued together, not a self bow carved from a single piece of wood. “You have a good eye,” Chella said, biting off a piece of string with her teeth. “It’s a Morning Star weapon. I got it while I lived there.”

“That must have been something, to live in a city,” Raina said. “All those people. None of them clan.”

“That should do it.” Chella handed back the bow to Raina. “Whoever used it last had shorter arms than you, so when you drew it there was too much tension. Give it a try.”

Raina took an arrow, knocked it against the string and drew the bow. Chella was right. Drawing was easier now and the string didn’t bite into her fingertips as much.

“Breathe,” Chella reminded her. “Exhale on release.”

For a wonder she managed a credible shot, the arrow entering the upper left quadrant of the target. Raina jumped up and down. “I got her.”

Chella grinned. “It’s a tossup between heartburn and heart-kill.”

It was good to laugh. It was good to shoot targets. “Now I’ve got to learn how to do it again.”

“Practice,” Chella said. “Every day. That’s the secret.”

Raina’s smile faded. There were no shortcuts here. It would take her weeks, months, to become a serviceable archer, let alone a decent one. And in the meantime the Weasel chief was sitting in Blackhail’s western meadow, gathering Scarpes around her like a queen bee, and acting as if she had a right to be there. Only yesterday she had intercepted returning Hail warriors and questioned them as if she were their chief. Then she had the gall to suggest that someone needed to remove Raina Blackhail from the Hailhouse before she did any more harm. “Dangerously volatile” was the phrase Yelma had used. And then in the very next breath she had pondered aloud, “We still don’t know who killed our guide.”

Raina’s cheeks heated. She could imagine the entire scene, the rich silk tent, the jewels on Yelma’s fingers, the small pause as she allowed the warriors to connect the two statements into one big indictment. Luckily, the party had included Dunkie Lye and Marten Gormalin who had paid the Scarpe chief little heed and returned to the Hailhouse to tell all. Still. Whispers had started. There were some here—Merritt Ganlow and her widows and Gat Murdock and his old-timers—who night be secretly pleased at the Weasel’s words.

“Release.”

Raina blinked. She was hardly aware she had drawn the bow. Sighting the arrowhead on the tree, she lifted her fingers from the string. As soon as she released she knew the shot was bad. The string skinned her arm above the wristguard on the recoil and the arrow shot into the earth, ten feet short of the tree.

Chella set off to retrieve the arrows. “You held your draw too long. Lost concentration.”

Raina heard kindness in the words. “I’ll never be good enough to—” She stopped herself. “To shoot consistently.”

Chella dug up the turfed arrow and pulled the others from the tree. “My father used to say that before you bring down your first deer you have to shoot a lot of rats.” Sliding the arrows in her bowcase she went in search of Raina’s first arrow, the one that had gone astray. “Of course, he didn’t mean just rats. He meant anything close to home that wasn’t afraid of the smell of humans—but should be.”

Was she trying to tell her something? Raina studied Chella’s profile as the girl searched for the missing arrow. Chella didn’t look up. Raina would have liked to ask her, What’s your lore? But that question was taboo in the clans so she went to butter up Mercy instead.

The two horses had walked upstream. They had found and investigated a small pond and had the frogspawn on their noses to prove it. Raina unfastened her wrist guard and used it as a scraper. As she removed the last of the jelly-like eggs from Chella’s stallion she saw two mounted figures heading out of the northern woods. A little prickle of apprehension traveled up Raina’s spine. What now?

The riders were unarmored and neither appeared heavily armed. They were riding at a trot and it was obvious that both had skills with horse. It was also obvious, though Raina would be hard pressed to say why, that at least one of them wasn’t clan. He was wearing a saddlecoat rather than a cloak, though it was more than that. Something in his stance—a sort of relaxed keenness—marked him as different. He was wearing a bearskin hat.

Raina looked to Chella, who nodded and came to stand in a formal position at Raina’s back. It was a signal to anyone who knew the clans: someone of high rank here.

In silence they watched the riders approach. The one with the hat was lean and ice-tanned; Raina could not imagine his age. The other rider was young and small, dark haired and dark eyed. Not quite a man. Reaching a distance of about a hundred feet, the older rider removed his hat and used it to wave a greeting. The unexpected and slightly countrified gesture warmed Raina and she smiled in response. At a distance of fifty feet the man cried out, “It’s Hew Mallin and I do believe we’ve met, Raina Blackhail. I had the pleasure of knowing your very fine husband, Dagro.”

Without a discernible signal passing between them, both riders dismounted and closed the remaining distance on foot.

As they came toward her Raina thought that perhaps she did know Hew Mallin, that he had visited the Hailhouse long in the past. A lot of people came to meet with Dagro and she had not always paid attention to them. Coming to a halt, both men waited upon her word as was proper. With Chella behind her, Raina felt as if she had a warrior at her back.

“Greetings, Hew Mallin,” Raina said. “It’s been a while.”

His smile was quick and it was followed by a deep and courtly bow. “Ten years since I was last here, lady. Much has changed.”

It was true enough. Mallin’s yellow-green eyes looked straight into hers and she found common experience there: things lost.

He said, “This is my companion, Bram Cormac. It’s his first time at Blackhail.”

Raina welcomed him. He was a good-looking boy, watchful and guarded, with the dark hair and complexion of the wild clans. The fact he was a clansman was not in doubt. How could Raina put it so someone who was not clan could understand her certainty? There was a vacancy after Mallin spoke the boy’s name where a clan should have gone.

“Lady.” The boy’s bow reached the same depth, if not the elegance, of Hew Mallin’s.

Looking at the baby-fine hairs at the back of his neck, Raina decided not to pursue the matter of his clan. She sensed the question would be unkind.

With a small movement of her wrist, she brought Chella forward and introduced her to the two men. The girl was so fine and strong Raina was proud to name her a Hailswoman.

Chella, for her part, was subdued. Her nods to Mallin and Bram Cormac were brief and she did not speak. Raina was surprised, but her attention was quickly taken by the horses. The boy’s horse, a fine black stallion, had slipped from his master’s control and had gone to sniff Mercy. The boy raced after him but it was too late, Mercy had begun to rear. The stallion was young and interested, but Mercy wasn’t having any of it. Grabbing the reins, Bram restrained it and pulled it back. Then, from a distance, he started speaking words to calm Mercy. Raina was surprised when the mare settled down. Usually when Mercy was vexed she did not take to strangers.

“Sorry,” Bram said to said Raina once Mercy was still. “Gabbie’s a bit willful at times.”

There was high color in the boy’s cheeks and Raina felt for him. “Has he had a long day?”

Bram glanced at Mallin.

“Many long days,” Mallin said, taking the question away from him. “We’ve been riding south from the Rift.”

Raina didn’t know what to say about that.

“The Maimed Men pay coin for fresh meat,” Mallin explained. “So we went to earn some pennies. Now we’re heading back.”

Raina nodded. She had heard the Maimed Men always needed meat. Dagro used to say they were terrible hunters. Certainly Mallin and Bram looked equipped to hunt: excellent horses, and two longbows, braced and ready, tied to the cantle of Mallin’s horse.

Quite suddenly she realized they were waiting. Mallin, Bram, even Chella. They were waiting upon her word, just like men and women would wait upon Dagro’s word in such a situation. These two men were passing through her clanhold. She could give them her blessing and let them pass, or invite them to enjoy the shelter of her roundhouse. What would Dagro do here? The answer was clear straightaway. Dagro was social and he loved company, and he also loved gathering information from different sources. He’d laugh and drink with visitors but you always knew he was chief.

Raina looked from Mallin to Bram. The wind was lifting Mallin’s thin gray braids and filling Bram’s patched wool cloak with air. It was a strange feeling, not unpleasant, having people apply for her hospitality. When she spoke she thought of Dagro and tried to do him proud. “Come and break your journey at our house. Blackhail will keep you this night.”

The response, the gratitude and pleasure of it, kept her warm during the return ride to the Hailhold.

The moon, three quarters of it, rose early while the sun was still in the west. It was good to ride in the company of three skilled riders, good also to see the massive dome of the roundhouse silhouetted against the southern sky. You could find many faults with the Hailhouse, but size wouldn’t be one of them, and Raina felt pride as she accompanied the visitors onto the stable court.

Jebb Onnachre came out to take the horses and, as was often the case with grooms, knew Hew Mallin on sight. “Been a long time, Sir,” he said. “Got yourself a new pony?”

Raina was pleased Jebb was acquainted with Mallin and also pleased with Mallin’s serious and respectful response. This was no high-and-mighty city type with no understanding of the value of working men.

Bram Cormac was different. Raina could not fault his respectfulness, but he was silent and wary. She fell in beside him as they walked to the front of the roundhouse. They could have entered through the new construction on the east wall but Raina recalled that Dagro liked first time visitors to pass through the greatdoor. “A bit of awe never hurt,” he used to say.

Altering her pace so that Mallin and Chella, who were walking side by side, pulled ahead, she said to Bram, “We don’t bite.”

His head was lowered against the wind but she thought perhaps he smiled, just a little.

“Where are you headed to next?”

Bram looked up. They had just rounded the front of the house and she could see the western sunlight traveling through the holes in his eyes. “Lady,” he said. “I do not know.”

She thought of that answer later, as she bathed and dressed for supper. Perhaps it was foolishness but she wished she could keep him here. He was young and she’d seen something vulnerable in him, and a life when you did not know where you would be tomorrow was no kind of life for a clansman.

She dressed with some care, loosing her hair and brushing it until it shone, and selecting a dress of fine blue wool. It was habit, from the old days when Dagro had visitors. The simple, womanly ritual soothed her. When she was ready she made her way to the Great Hearth.

The great doors were open and fire was dancing in the hearth. Torches ringed the room, creating a warm bright light. Raina wished that more of the benches were occupied, then checked herself. Only ten days ago they’d been full of Scarpes.

Food and had been laid out on the table close to the fire and Raina was pleased to see that Merritt Ganlow and Sheela Cobbin had done a fine job. Platters of roast pork and spring lamb were set beside bowls of whole roasted onions and fried bread in gravy. Warriors helped themselves. Some were sitting at the table and other were at their regular spots on the benches. All were drinking. A fresh keg of ale had been tapped and malts of various ages and pedigrees claimed the floor at the end of the table. Some women and children had taken places near the rear and Raina hoped more would come later. It was tradition that when the doors of the Great Hearth were held open women, children and those without oaths were welcome.

Raina entered at will these days.

“Chief’s.” The welcome came from Hardgate Meese, Corbie’s father, and she returned it with a smile. Hardgate was sitting in the company of a half-dozen hammermen and her smile prompted a general raising of mugs and a toast.

“Chief’s.”

Grinning, Raina crossed toward Hew Mallin. The visitor was deep in conversation with master bowman Ballic the Red, but broke off conversation as she approached. “Lady,” he said rising and offering his chair.

Raina took it. She also accepted the cup of malt he poured for her. Tasting it she discovered that Mallin had somehow managed to lay his hands on the best malt in the house.

Ballic left to fetch some food.

While it was still fresh in her mind, Raina asked Mallin, “Where are you off to next?”

Mallin shrugged. He had taken off his saddlecoat, revealing a fawn brown tunic and intricately knotted linen shirt. “Maybe Spire Vanis.”

Raina wondered how soon the boy would know. She said, “Has Ballic been telling you of our troubles with the Scarpe chief?”

Leaning back in his new chair, Mallin said quietly, “Word gets around.”

Raina inched forward. They were sitting in the rear of the room. Mallin’s back was to the wall. Smoke from the torch above his head was being drawn toward the hearth’s chimney, forming a line like a spoke on a wheel. She said, “What have you heard?”

“The Weasel Camp’s a thousand strong. More are on their way.”

Dunkie Lye had mentioned a similar number. “How many are coming?”

“Word is she’s sent for the entire clan.”

Dear gods. Raina forced herself to think. “You mean all those remaining at Scarpe?”

Mallin nodded. “She won’t pull any of her warriors from Bannen Field. It would be too… risky.”

Raina saw the point. If the Scarpe force at Bannen was to suddenly pull up tents and head north Mace might start to get worried and turn right around and chase them. That was not what the Scarpe chief wanted. Yelma wanted to be well ensconced in the Hailhouse before Mace realized her true intent.

Taking a sip of malt, Raina let the information sink in. The alcohol existed at the divide between fire and smoke. She breathed more of it than she drank.

Mallin poured himself another cup but didn’t sup. His eyes were green in the lamplight. “Yelma’s a Scarpe through and through. She won’t strike until everything’s in her favor.”

“So she’ll wait upon the extra men from Scarpe.”

“And she’ll be counting cards as well.”

Raina didn’t understand.

“She’ll be keeping track of your numbers. How many come. How many go. The less warriors in here the better. And remember, she knows the house is not secure. That new construction’s not done. Half of it’s still wood boards.”

He was quick and he was right. A brief walk past the construction and he’d figured that one out.

“If I were you, Raina Blackhail, I’d strike that camp hard and soon. Take it by surprise and tear it down.”

Raina stared at Mallin. Something in her gut was tingling and she wished she hadn’t drunk the malt. She had wanted to be ready before she took action against Yelma Scarpe, ready to shoot from the saddle and lead men. There was no time for ready though, that was what Hew Mallin was telling her. She had to strike before Yelma’s reinforcements arrived.

Mallin stood. “She has superior numbers but inferior position. And she doesn’t think you have the jaw to strike.

“Prove her wrong.”

With that he bowed and walked away. Raina watched as he stopped by the food table and served himself a plate of lamb. Within seconds he had fallen into conversation with the swordsman Stanner Hawk.

Raina put a hand on her belly. The pain wasn’t the malt, she knew that now. It was the guidestone, stirring in its pocket of flesh, reminding her of the oath.

I pledge to defend Blackhail and stop at nothing to save us and give my last breath to the Heart of Clan.

Raina rose and left.