A Sword from Red Ice

Feeling weak at the knees, Raina withdrew the few steps necessary to steady herself against the endwall. She had seen a similar thing happen six months ago, when Raif and Drey Sevrance had returned from the Badlands and the Dog Lord had been blamed for Dagros death. Kill Bludd! they had cried then. A lot of good that had done, plunging the clan into war with Dhoone and Bludd.

Yet she could not deny that they needed this. For a week she had looked into the eyes of men and women who were lost. The Hailstone lay shattered and in pieces, and without it they were set adrift. Raina felt it, too, that feeling of no longer being anchored to earth and clan. The gods no longer lived here; the implications were too much to comprehend.

Here, though, was something Hailsmen could understand: war. Joy and rage and comradeship had come alive in this room. Mace Blackhail had turned a situation that was cause for despair into a rallying cry for the clan. It was, Raina realized with deeply mixed feelings, something she could learn from. Her husband had flawless instincts as a warlord.

Already the makeshift war parley was starting to head upstairs to the primary hall in the roundhouse, the warriors' chamber known as the greathearth. Bev Shank and his father Orwin passed Raina with barely a sideways glance. Orwin had his great bell-bladed war ax out and his swollen, arthritic knuckle joints were stretched white where they grasped the limewood handle. His oldest son, Mull, was at Ganmiddich. Ullic Scarpe, one of the many cousins of the Weasel chief, was brandishing his ugly black-tinted broadsword, making mock swipes at his companion Wracker Fox. Both men sneered at Raina, pushing closer to her than was necessary as they made their way toward the stairs.

Meanwhile, Ballic the Red was quietly pulling Arlec Byce and Cleg Trotter to one side and Raina could tell from the brevity of Baillic's expression that the master bowman had taken it up himself to explain to them the fate of the Hailstone. Raina was glad they would hear the news from a decent man.

Mace was in the midst of a huddle of hammermen intent on escorting their chief up the stairs. As he drew closer Raina steeled herself "Husband," she said. "If I might have a word»

He always marked her, even when his attention was pulled a dozen ways. His head whipped around and his strange yellow-brown eyes pinned her. "Corbie. Derric," he said to the two nearest men. "Go on without me. The war party will leave within five days."

Dent-headed Corbie Meese nodded. "Aye, Chief." He might have been a bit disappointed by Mace's schedule, but he was a better man than to show it. Bowing his head respectfully to Raina, he vaulted up the stairs.

Taking her cue from Longhead and Merritt—two people who never wasted an unnecessary word—Raina said to Mace, "Longhead awaits your decision on the guidestone. The remains must be laid to rest with proper ceremony."

"It is not your concern, wife. You are not guide or chief"

"Something must be done. Now. There's a scrap heap out there that used to be the Hailstone. How can we regain our dignity as a clan if we are forced to look at it every day?"

"Enough," Mace hissed. "I have made plans. Longhead will hear of them when I choose to tell him."

His words were like a slap to her face. He had made arrangements for the stone in secret, robbing her of the chance to have her say.

Detecting the heat in her cheeks Mace stretched his lips. "You forget your place."

She did, he was right. It was something she had to be careful of, that overreaching of her authority. A chiefs wife had no dealings with the gods. It had been a mistake to claim the guidestone as her responsibility: it revealed ambition. Yet how could she not care? This was her clan and she was one of the very few people within it who could see beyond Mace Blackhail and his self-promoting war. A quick glance at her husband's face helped sharpen her mind. She could not give him too long to think.

"Will you at least do me the favor of letting Longhead know you have the matter in hand? That way he might stop pestering me. I'm run ragged as it is." Raina waited.

Mace's expression slackened, the careful scrutiny of moments earlier withdrawn. Not forgotten. Withdrawn.

"I'll send a boy."

Raina nodded. Instinct told her she needed to put more distance between herself and the guidestone. "About the rehousing. There's close to two hundred families camping in the hallways, and more are arriving every day. It's becoming dangerous. Only last night a Scarpewife knocked over an unguarded lamp outside the great hearth. If Bev Shank hadn't acted as quickly as he did we would have had a fire on our hands."

He watches you, you know. Little mice with weasels7 tails. Bessie Flapp's words echoed in Raina's mind. How did Mace know what she had asked the widows in confidence? Unsettled, she pushed ahead. The widows have agreed to give up their hearth for ninety days."

"You have done well, Raina."