A Sword from Red Ice

He was less sure what he owed to the lamb brothers. They had opened up his shoulder and drawn out the Shatan Maer's claw. It had been the elder brother, not Tallal, who had done the work. Raif was glad he had been asleep. Addie had told him that he had lain on his stomach for three days while the strange and unstable remains of shad-owflesh were placed on the oozing wound. Shadow drew shadow. The Unmade had been frozen in the lake too. Their flesh corrupted quickly as it thawed, smoking to nothing like a pure form of fuel. Addie said the brothers had farmed a single corpse for the poultice, moderating its temperature by exposing the carcass to sunlight or covering it with lake ice and skins. New strips were cut and laid every hour. The cragsman had been eager to tell more, but Raif did not want to hear it. At some point in the story the leeches had started to look good.

"Popped out like a piece of gristle," Addie had said, unable to resist revealing the final detail "Little black thing, it was. Shiny as a dead fly."

Raif had told Addie to go. He could only take knowledge like that in small doses. And he had not liked word farmed.

Easing himself further back against the rock, Raif braced the weight of his upper body with his right arm. He knew better than to use his left. It was still weak and spasms passed along at unexpected moments, making it impossible to use with any confidence. Tallal said it would heal, given time.

A cool breeze channeled up the hillside, stirring the dark sea of trees. A lone heron was heading north, its scrawny yellow feet swaying from side to side as it beat its powerful wings. To the west the clanholds spread out in a series of hills and rolling valleys. Clansmen must have takeiwto the woods, for Raif could see several lines of smoke rising above the canopy. The warmer weather had brought out hunters. Elk would be moving north, like the heron, and moose would be calving. Boars would be out from their dens, snuffling for bulbs in the damp earth beneath the trees. Raif thought perhaps Tallal was right: He would heal. Already he wanted down there. He wanted to be deep in the woods, hunting with a good heavy spear and the Sull bow.

If he had no obligations that was what he would choose to do with his life, he realized, idly scanning the valley for game. If he could not be a clansman he would be a woodsman. Build himself a cabin for the winters, take to the trails in spring and summer, hunt, fish, learn some things about animals and nature. Swim in black-water pools, eat rosehips warmed by the sun and berries frozen by sudden frosts. Hopefully not die from cooking the wrong kind of mushrooms. It would be a life not without struggle and hardship. And it would be a life alone.

Raif thought of Ash then, her silver hair and fine hands and long legs… and he could not imagine her into that life. The dreams had no traction.

None of them did.

Back at the camp, Addie had walked the ewe from the corral and was grooming it with something that looked like a raccoon's ribcage. "Curly-haired," he'd said to Raif this morning. "Solid little milker. Wouldn't have expected it from a fancy." Between the sheep, the trapper's tea, and the lamb brothers' herbs, Addie Gunn was a happy man. Still, his attention wasn't fully on the ewe. Every now and then he'd sneak a look at Raif whilst pretending to pull hairs from his newfangled comb. He was very bad at pretending.

Raif angled his face to get some sun. It felt good. Renewing. He now existed in a world where he had given his word and kept it. Traggis Mole's bidding—half of it—had been done, and Raif now possessed the sword named Loss. It was waiting for him in the tent. He had not laid eyes on it since the day on the ice. According to Addie it would need some work. "Never seen anything like it," was the only comment he had offered on its form. Raif felt a stirring of curiosity about the blade, and wondered if he would ever learn the raven lord s name and history.

He also wondered, but would never ask, whether the lamb brothers had released the man's soul. The raven lord's fate was important to Raif Sevrance. He feared it would become his own. Soon, the Endlords had promised him. The warmth of the sun could not stop the chill from entering the damaged spaces in Raif s heart. They had touched him through the frozen fingers of the raven lord. He'd seen them … and been seen.

They knew him now, knew his name and his purpose.

And where to find him.

Pushing himself up with his fist, Raif muscled himself to standing. He was Watcher of the Dead and he had a sword to grind and sand. And here was Addie coming toward him to help down the slope.

Soon.

EPILOGUE A Stranger at Drover Jack's