A Sword from Red Ice

"Stannig." Raina was pleased with how strong her voice sounded. Resisting the urge to draw the shoulder pack behind her skirts she said, "If you will excuse me I have work to do in the stables. Good day." She turned her back on him and nearly got away, but he stopped her with a question.

"Did you fall?" He waited until she had turned back to face him before dropping his gaze to her sopping skirts.

She shrugged. "Work."

He let the silence spin out, breathing possessively, claiming the air between them. "I see." His hands twitched. Raina could see the stone dust wedged beneath his fingernails. "I have been looking for you. Someone said they had seen you slip belowground at noon." He paused, letting her know that it was now a long time after noon. "I had not thought to find you here."

"Yet still you looked." It was a mistake to challenge him and she wished she could take it back.

Again his hands twitched. "I believe you are unhappy with the removal of the Hailstone."

Merritt Ganlow. Raina could hardly fathom it She and Merritt had been friends for twenty years; their husbands had shared a tent the day they died. How could Merritt do this? How could she talk to this man about their private conversations?

Stannig Beade watched Raina compose herself, his expression fixed, his dark eyes gleaming with animal triumph.

Raina took a deep breath. Think, she told herself. Think. "I have some concerns, I will not hide that. To grind the stone to nothing and dump it in the lake seems… unceremonious."

Stannig Bead brought a hand to his face and tapped his chin. "Unceremonious," he repeated, giving the word a sharp little twist. "A chiefs wife concerned with matters of the gods… how… unusual."

Raina felt her face grow hot.

It appeared to be the outcome he was hoping for, as he nodded once, to himself. "Seems I have chosen the right person after all."

She would not give him the satisfaction of asking what he meant. Stomach sinking, skirts dripping water onto the floor, she waited.

Stannig Beade was unperturbed. Moving his powerful shoulders in a relaxed shrug, he said, "The ceremony to hallow the new Hailstone requires a person of high honor to light the Menhir Fire. Commonly it is custom for the clan chief to hold the torch, but as you are aware your husband is at war. I have given long thought to the matter of who should stand in for him, and spoken with many people in the clan. Time and time again a name came up. She is the one held in deepest respect. She is the one whose presence is most valued. She is the who will bring the highest honor to the ceremony." The clan guide of Scarpe and now Blackhail looked Raina straight in the eye. "I know you would not want to disappoint your clansmen and clanswomen, Raina Blackhail, so I will assume on Menhir Night you will stand at my side and aid me in presenting the new Hailstone to the gods."

He did not wait for her answer, just bowed a sharp dismissal and left her standing in the corridor alone.

She watched dust roused by his footsteps settle and knew she had been outmaneuvered by an expert. Stannig Beade would use her standing in this clan to strengthen his position and validate the new guidestone. She could hear her clansmen now:

"Well, I was against it, I admit But there's Raina at Beade's side and we all know she's not a woman to give her support lightly.."

"Aye. If the new stones good enough for Raina Blackhail it'll do for me."

Aware she was swaying slightly, Raina sent out a hand to brace herself against the wall. She could not refuse Stannig Beade, for she had heard the warning in his voice: Refuse and all will know it. You will fracture the clan and reveal your ambition … and what good will that do you on Mace's return?

If Mace ever did return. If he died in battle it would suit Beade well enough. The Scarpe guide was already beginning to act like a chief.

Raina gave a little cry of fright as the flame in her safelamp went out.

SEVENTEEN The Clan That Walks Swords

It was two hours past sunset and the Milkhouse's primary door was closed and unlit. Bram Cormac hesitated to approach it and demand entry. The ferryman who had transported Bram and his horse across the Milk River was poling his barge away from the shore. "Do'na dawdle, boy. The longer you leave it the harder you'll have to knock." Laughing as if he'd said something amusing, the ferryman floated away.

Bram looked at his feet. They were wet; the barge had taken in water once the weight of Guy Morloch's stallion had settled upon it. Still, it was better than having to swim across. Last time Bram was here there had been no ferryman to provide crossing.

Gaberil, Guy's horse, nosed Bram's side, playful now that the trauma of the crossing was behind him. "Easy, Gabbie," Bram murmured, absently running his hand over the horse's mane as he stared at the massive glowing dome of the Milkhouse. "I just need a moment to decide what to do."