"Jones, J V - Sword Of Shadows 02 - A Fortress Of Gray Ice V2" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jones J. V)

Biddie looked confused. She was a sweet girl, and she didn’t deserve to have her happiness ruined on such a day. “Go, Biddie,” Raina said. “I’ll come to you later and you can tell me everything then.”
The girl had the sense not to argue. Careful not to make eye contact with the Scarpemen, she dropped a curtsy to Mace and took her leave. Raina watched her go. Was I really that young once?
“Leave us.” Mace addressed the two Scarpe warriors who flanked him. They were tall men, clad in leather boots and leather britches, and protected from the elements by oiled greatcloaks trimmed with the soft underbelly fur of weasels.
Raina did not know their names. Once they were out of earshot she asked Mace, “Why do you bring them here?”
“Because I can,” Mace answered simply. She saw from his eyes that he was aware she had spoken to distract him but had chosen to answer regardless. “Scarpe is my birthclan. Their house has been destroyed by Orrlsmen and they’re in need. Tell me you would not do the very same if it were Dregg.”
She could not deny it. Dregg was her birthclan. Its chiefs had sworn fealty to Blackhail for forty generations, fought alongside dozens of Hail chiefs, and stood ready to defend even more. Blackhail owed Dregg something in return. “Is Yelma rebuilding her house?” she asked.
Mace’s narrow features displayed a brittle kind of amusement. “So many questions, Raina. One might think you were taking a wifely interest in my pursuits.” And then, after a beat, “Are you?”
For the briefest instant raw need showed plainly on his face. He wants me, gods know why. Raina took a breath to give herself a moment before answering. He was young, she must not forget that. He had never felt fully accepted here—even now, after he’d made chief. Oh, he covered it well enough but deep down inside he knew he’d never be a Blackhail. Just a Scarpe.
“Mace,” she said after a moment. “I am called to the guidehouse.”
He was quick to understand her. “Go,” he said coldly, dismissing her. “But do not blame me if I begin to treat you as a hindrance, not a wife.”
Raina felt his gaze upon her as she walked the length of the hall. Sometimes she wondered why she carried on.
As she approached the narrow tunnel that led out to the guide-house, she smoothed her dress and checked her boots for mud. Foolishness, but she could not help herself. There would be another battle here—she sensed it—and she had long learned to fight with whatever weapons she had at hand. Inigar would see her as chief’s wife, not some scared little maid he could bully and cajole.
Pulling composure about her like a mask, she entered the Blackhail guidehouse.
The cold struck her first, the sheer depth and deadness of it. How long ago had the freeze set in? Ten days? Surely now it was passed. Just yesterday she had watered Mercy at the Leak, and she was sure she had felt the first whiff of spring. Yet here, in the guidehouse, time seemed to have stopped at midwinter. Chilled, she rubbed her arms, wishing she had thought to bring a shawl.
As her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, the massive bulk of the Hailstone emerged from the shadows like something conjured up from another world. Its bulk and power humbled her, and despite her best attempts to discipline her emotions she felt the old stirrings of awe.
Then she saw the stone was steaming.
Fear, instant and so concentrated she could taste the salt in it, leapt from her throat to her mouth. The Hailstone was steaming like a side of frozen meat.
“Yes, Raina Blackhail. Eagle lores always know when to fear.”
Startled by the clan guide’s voice, yet determined not to show it, Raina straightened the curve of her back and said, “How long has it been like this?”
Inigar Stoop stepped free from the shadows and smoke. He has aged, she thought as the two regarded each other. The clan guide’s eyes were as black and hard as ever, but his body seemed shrunk and dry, sucked clean of blood. She tried not to show her shock, but Inigar Stoop was not an easy man to fool.
“You find me changed, Raina?” he said, his voice as sharp as ever. “Then perhaps you should have come here before now.”
She made no reply. I am chief’s wife and will offer no excuses to this man.
He knew what she was thinking, she was sure of it, and for a moment the two faced each other as adversaries; chief’s wife and clan guide, gazes locked and bristling. Then, abruptly, Inigar shrugged. Strangely he pulled off the pigskin gloves he had been wearing and held them out toward her. “Take them. Touch the stone.”
Annoyed that she had lost control of the situation, but also affected by the grimness in Inigar’s voice, she hesitated.
He offered the gloves once more. “You cannot touch the stone without them. It would skin you.”
How can it be? she wanted to ask, but she feared that question more than touching the stone, so she took the gloves from him and drew close to the guidestone’s eastern face. Cold breath rose from the monolith, making her teeth chatter like a little girl’s. This close she could see the living surface of the stone, the valleys and fissures and weeping holes. Normally it was damp and oozing, but a frost covered it like scale. Wary, she reached out and laid gloved fingers upon it.
Oh gods. It was like touching a dying man. Always when she had touched it before—at the end of her girlhood, after both her weddings and Dagro’s death—its power had leapt toward her fingers like heat. Now it was cold and all power had withdrawn from the surface. She sensed it buried deep. As she took her hand away she felt a faint stirring, as if something reached toward her . . . but failed.
The loss numbed her.
Inigar Stoop stood silent, watching. After a time he said, “The gods send ice into the heart of the stone. It will shatter before the year’s out.”
Raina touched her measure of guidestone, held in an embroidered pouch at her waist. She had heard the tales of guidestones cracking, but they had always seemed like legends more than truth. Quietly she said, “The Eve of Breaking?”
Inigar nodded. “The night Stanner Hawk sent a hound to the fire.”
She bowed her head. It was too much to see the weight of knowledge on his face.
Slowly, she backed away, feeling for a wall to support her. The guidehouse was in disarray, the smoke fire burned out, grit and ashes littering the floor, chisels scattered like sticks. Even the clan guide’s clothes had been neglected, and his once-fine pigskins were stained and torn. Suddenly she felt pity for him, but knew better than to show it. “Have you told Mace?”
“You know I have not. What good would it do to strike fear amongst the clan?”
“Yet you show no such scruples to me?”
“You are a woman and do not fight.”
She wanted to strike him for his arrogance. How dare he! She fought. Gods knew how she fought for this clan. Shaking, she said, “I wonder why you brought me here as it seems you think so little of me.” With that she turned to leave.
“Stay,” he commanded, his voice calm with practiced authority. “I said only that you do not fight, not that you hold no power.”
Tired of games, she threw the pigskin gloves onto the floor. “What would you have of me? The stone is broken and I cannot fix it. I’d have to be a god for that.”
Still he did not rise to her anger. Moving to pick up the gloves, he said, “Do you know all stones have lives? Ask any farmer. Stones can appear in their fields overnight, cast up by the restless earth. Mountains calf and move them, rivers and glaciers carry them, and heat and ice destroy them when all else is done. Whenever a stone dies a new one must be found to take its place.”
Inigar Stoop grew silent, and Raina found herself wondering when he had ceased talking of stones and begun talking about himself.
“I want Effie Sevrance, Raina. Tell me where she is.” So this was what he wanted. Effie. She should have guessed it.
“You cannot protect her, Inigar.”
“I am clan guide. I watch over this clan, and will watch over her.”
Yet you did not watch her the night Stanner Hawk tried to burn her in the forge. And then the damning thought, None of us did. Anger at her own failing made her sharp. “You are only one man, Inigar Stoop, one amongst thousands. Effie is no longer safe in this clan.”
Inigar’s hawked nose whitened across the bridge. “She is needed. I choose her to be the next guide.”
Raina stopped herself from replying sharply. Looking at the guidehouse, at the smoke-blackened walls, stone troughs and stark benches, she knew Inigar did not see this place as she did. Again the pity came. He is sick and will one day die, and there is no one to take his place. She said gently, “You must choose another, Inigar. Effie will soon be gone from here; I’m sending her south to my sister at Dregg.”
Cold anger burned in the guide’s eyes. “So the girl is more important to you than clan?”
It was not a fair question, and she could not answer it. All she knew was that when Bitty Shank came running to find her on the Eve of Breaking, telling of how he’d found Effie outside in the dog cotes, shaking with cold and fright, she thought her heart might break. No child had lost as much as Effie Sevrance; Raina was determined she would lose no more.
Inigar spoke over her thoughts. “I have searched for five years for someone to train as my replacement. Every time a boy was born I hoped. Whenever a child took special interest in the guidehouse I watched and waited and dreamt . . . but no new guide ever came. And then Effie began to come here, and sit beneath that bench. No child has ever disturbed my dreams like she has. There’s power in her, Raina. Power this clan can use. She is young yet, but she will grow and learn more. I will teach her myself.”