A Sword from Red Ice

As he slid the tray into one of the deep recesses in the walls, Bram heard a footfall on the stairs.

"I see you are working hard," Wrayan Castlemilk said descending the final steps and entering the chill shadows of the cold room. Fine silver chains at her throat and wrists gleamed as she moved around the chamber. "I don't believe I have been down since I was a girl. I imagined it bigger and more … frightful. My brother once told me they slaughtered cows here. He bolted that door on me one evening. Didn't come back. The old dairyman Windle Hench found me here the next morning. Apparently I was sitting right where you stand now, calmly eating a wedge of cheese."

Bram could believe it. Wiping his hands on his pant legs, he said, "Lady."

This seemed to amuse her. Her dress was made from smooth blue wool and she wore a simple matching cloak. A pair of gloves were tucked into her bodice, and her brown leather boots had little piles of snow on the toes. Bram seemed to remember Mabb telling him once that the better the boot the longer the snow took to melt. "A messenger arrived from Dhoone last night," she said, apparently in no hurry to head back up the steps. "Robbie sends his greetings."

Muscles in Bram's chest did strange things. "He knows I am here?" He heard the hope in his voice and was surprised by it. He hadn't known it was there.

"Oh yes," Wrayan said, looking at him very carefully. "I made sure he knew you had arrived safely and taken First Oath."

Bram understood that she had declared him out of bounds to his brother. Robbie Bmi Dhoone could stake no claim on Bram Cormac for one year. It was hard not to imagine Robbie's face when he received the news. He must have felffi moment's misgiving. They were brothers. They'd shared breakfast, blankets, head colds, punishments, adventures, secrets, cloaks, boots. It had to mean something. Bram was sure it had to mean something. "Did he send any message?"

"No."The Milk chiefs voice was level. After she had delivered this answer she did Bram the kindness of walking over to the right wall and inspecting the rows of churns that stood there.

He sent his greetings, Bram reminded himself. Surely that is a good message in itself? He took a breath, trying to force out the tightness in his chest.

"Someone sent you a message, though," Wrayan said, glan||ng at Bram over her shoulder. "Apparently Guy Morloch wants his horse back."

Bram hung his head. What could he possibly say to that?

"I told him to go to hell. Formally seized the horse for Castlemilk— I am chief, I do things like that-and now I gift the stallion, without condition, to you." She smiled, and it was such a lovely and unexpected thing it warmed the room. "I believe it's got some godawful name, like Gilderhand or Girdlegloom. Guy Morloch always was a stuck-up little shit"

"Gaberil," Bram said.

They both laughed. Because Wrayan Castlemilk was chief and knew it, she took the lid off one of the vats and poked the setting cheese. lf anyone in the dairy had done that they'd be on pat watch for a week.

"So," she said, wiping her finger on one of the cheesecloths, "I believe our swordmaster has taken your sword."

Bram could barely keep up with her. "Yes, lady."

"It's quite a choice you have coming up." Seeing his confusion she explained, "At Castlemilk when a swordmaster takes your sword it means he's claiming you as an apprentice. Dalhousie believes you're quick enough to be a first-rate swordsman."

This was so surprising, Bram had to go over the chief's words one by one in his head. He felt as if he were a piece of cooling metal that she kept plunging into hot and cold water to temper. Dalhousie wanted him as an apprentice? He'd received only two pieces of praise from the swordmaster in all the weeks he'd trained under him—and one of them was today. You're getting better on your feet.

"Of course," Wrayan said, preparing to leave, "training to become a master swordsman is a task that will take up the better part of each day. Just as a guide's training would." Another plunge into hot water. The Milk chiefs gaze assessed him shrewdly. "So you must choose which one you will be."

Waving a hand in farewell, Wrayan Castlemilk took the stairs and left.

Bram felt as if he'd lived an entire life in the scant minutes she had been here. He had to stand for a while just to let it all sink in. Bram Cormac now possessed a very fine and slightly needy stallion. Dalhousie wanted him as an apprentice.

And his older brother knew he had taken the Castlemilk oath. Robbie knew yet had sent no message of goodwill. He is busy. Bram told himself harshly. He has an entire clanhold to secure. Suddenly needing to get outside into the light, Bram righted the lid on the cheese vat-Wrayan Castlemilk had not-replaced it — and then headed up the steps. Guide or master swordsman. He knew he was lucky to have such a choice. Yet he didn't feel lucky, just confused. Was it ungrateful to want something more?