A Sword from Red Ice

"Will I learn the histories?" Bram asked.

Ogmore looked at him strangely. "Scholars do not make good guides."

Bram opened his mouth to ask why, but Ogmore forestalled him with a raised hand.

"We will speak no more. Do not give me your answer now. I know you work hard at your swordsmanship under Selco and Burmish. I also know you spend two hours in the dairy each morning, performing the simple task necessary for feeding clan. Both of these endeavors are right and fitting. For now I would have you continue all of them, including assisting me in this house, but know this: I will ask for a choice. When sufficient time has passed for contemplation I will call you into the presence of the Milkstone and an answer must be given." Drouse Ogmore walked to the edge of the table and leant across it so that his face was inches away from Bram's. "I saw you that day when you touched the stone—it reached toward you. You must decide if you are willing to reach back."

The guide pushed himself to upright and left the room. Bram sat alone in the darkness and watched as smoke poured under the door.

TWENTY-EIGHT The Rift Awakens

Raif was awaiting delivery of the Forsworn sword. Stillborn had sent it to Piggie Blesdo for a refiring four days back and had gone off this morning to retrieve it. Piggie was an ex-Dhoonesmen and blacksmith who had built a tower furnace on one of the high eastern ledges, and did most of the steelwork for the Maimed Men. Stillborn had gone to retrieve it three hours back, but Raif wasn't worried by his absence. Stillborn was an expert at whiling time. Besides, it was good to be alone.

Yelma, Stillbom'sMnd-filled quintain, was'-creaking on her iron chain that was suspended above the fight circle. For reasons Raif could not guess, Stillborn had dressed up the practice dummy in ugly iron turtle armor and a red skirt. She didn't have a head, but the top of her torso boasted a fleece hat with ear warmers. Stillborn had nailed it in place. Raif had taken a few swipes at her earlier, but had quickly lost interest. He had not yet found the balance of the sword Stillborn had lent to him, yet even with that disadvantage it was too easy to spike the quintain's heart Stillborn's cave consisted of a single chamber shaped like a wedge of cheese turned on its side. The rock ceiling above the cave mouth and fight circle was high and vaulted, but toward the back of the cave, the ceiling lowered sharply and ended, thirty feet into the cliff cave, in a point. The point was where Stillborn stowed his least-used possess-sions; rusted spears, heaps of old clothing, an iron bathtub, a stool with a broken leg, a preserved bear head, several saddles, a silver urn decorated with enameled balls, and other trophies from his raids and hunts. Raif sat among them, the rock ceiling less than a hand's length above his head, and tried to decide if it was worth sanding the rust from one of the spears. The spear he had in his hand was good and heavy, its shaft made from a single piece of rolled iron, its head bladed with a rusted but decent point. Stillborn had told him to help himself to anything he found here. "Except the bear head," he'd added thoughtfully, squinting into the possession pile. "I might have a go of tacking that on Yelma."

To remove himself and the spear from the tight wedge of the back wall, Raif had to walk in a crouch, holding the spear horizontal at his waist. Ahead, he saw a figure step into the light surrounding the cave mouth. Raif moved through the shadows toward it.

Mallia Argola gave a small scream as she spied him coming toward her, armed.

"No," Raif cried out, holding the spear away from his body. "I… I'm just going to clean it."

She glanced from the head of the spear to his face, lips pressed together, forehead knitted into a deep frown. "You scared me."

"I'm sorry." Raif set down the spear and moved forward with his back hunched. Twice he'd seen her now and both times he was walking like an idiot. "What do you want?" Right away he realized it was an ungracious question, but it was too late to take it back.

Holding out a package wrapped in some silky kind of cloth, she said, "Your gloves and cloak. You left them at our home." Her voice was faintly accented, and prickly with the emotions that followed unjustified fear. She was wearing a long-sleeved dress of a color that fell between deep green and deep blue, and the same black bodice that had snugged her waist yesterday on the ledge snugged it again now. An airily woven black shawl covered a narrow strip of her arms and shoulders. "Take them."

Raif approached her, and they shared a few awkward moments as the package was transferred between them. She smelled like marsh fern, spicy and green.

"Are you not going to look?"

Puzzled, Raif glanced down at the package. It had been tied neatly with black cord.

"The cloak," Mallia said, as if she was stating something that should be obvious to him. "I repaired it for you."