hearth—but
only for use by Hailsmen, mind. We won't have no Scarpes near the
wall."
And so it continues. Raina took a deep breath,
orienting herself to deal with this newly delivered problem. Dagro
had once told her that in cities they had halls of learning where men
could study ancient histories, languages, astronomy, mathematics and
other wondrous things. He said it could take a decade to master a
discipline. Raina had thought it rather long at the time. Right now
she'd like to go there, and take all ten years to learn to be a
chief.
I will be chief. Two months ago she had spoken
those words out loud in the gameroom, and even though only two people
in the clan had heard them—Anwyn Bird and Orwin Shank—it
did not lessen their meaning. She had spoken treason against her
husband and chief, and when she thought of it now her skin flushed
with fear. Yet she could not and would not take it back.
Mace Blackhail was Dagro's foster son, brought
from Scarpe as an eleven-year-old boy. Dagro's first wife, Norala,
had been barren and a chief was always anxious to have sons. Yelma
Scarpe, the Weasel chief, had sent him one. Raina had never liked
him. She saw flaws in her new foster son that her husband had been
blind to. Mace was secretive, he arranged for others to take the
blame for his misdemeanors, and he had never given up being a Scarpe.
Dagro saw it differently. To him Mace could do no wrong. Mace was the
best young swordsman, the most promising strategist and a faithful
son. That blindness had killed Dagro in the end. Mace Blackhail had
planned the murder of his father and chief. Even now Raina did not
know what happened that day in the Badlands, but two things were
certain. Mace had ridden home from the slaughter and lied about the
outcome, and one about that day in the Oldwood and everything she had
worked for might come undone.
Making an effort, Raina said, "When I spoke
with Biddie about using the widows' hearth to house clansmen I recall
no talk of barring Scarpes."
"Well you wouldn't, Raina," Merritt
replied, cool as milk, "as it was my idea to bar them."
Of course it was. Raina had known Merritt Ganlow
for twenty years. Her husband, Meth, had shared a tent with Dagro on
that last fateful longhunt, and the two men had been friends since
childhood. Merritt had a sharp mind to go with her green eyes, and a
prickly way about her. She had taken to widowhood with both zeal and
resentment, and had made no secret of the fact that she disapproved
of Raina's hasty marriage to Mace.
"You have a habit of putting me in a
difficult position, Merritt Ganlow," Raina said to her.
"You have a habit of being in a difficult
position, Raina Blackhail. All I do is point it out."
She was right, of course. The damage to the
roundhouse meant that both Hailish families and Scarpe ones needed
new places to stay. The widows' hearth was, in Raina's opinion, the
finest hall in the entire building. Housed at the pinnacle of the
great dome, it had half a dozen windows that let in light. Someone
had painted the walls with yellow distemper and someone else had
thought to lay wooden boards across the floor. It was a pretty
chamber, airy and full of sunlight. Unlike any other room in this
dour, lamp-lit place.
Take a hold of yourself, Raina warned herself. It
was too late to do anything about where she lived now. The Blackhail
roundhouse had been built for defense, not beauty, and she had known
that from the moment she first spied its hard, drum-shaped walls all
those years ago when riding across the Wedge on the journey from
Dregg. What she needed to concentrate on now was space. Families had
taken to setting down their bedrolls in corridors and storage areas,
and lighting cook-fires and oil lamps wherever they pleased.
Raina glanced around the great half-moon of the
entrance hall. A scrawny boy was chasing an even scrawnier chicken up
the stairs, two Scarpewives dressed in black tunics and black leather
aprons were fussing
only for use by Hailsmen, mind. We won't have no Scarpes near the
wall."
And so it continues. Raina took a deep breath,
orienting herself to deal with this newly delivered problem. Dagro
had once told her that in cities they had halls of learning where men
could study ancient histories, languages, astronomy, mathematics and
other wondrous things. He said it could take a decade to master a
discipline. Raina had thought it rather long at the time. Right now
she'd like to go there, and take all ten years to learn to be a
chief.
I will be chief. Two months ago she had spoken
those words out loud in the gameroom, and even though only two people
in the clan had heard them—Anwyn Bird and Orwin Shank—it
did not lessen their meaning. She had spoken treason against her
husband and chief, and when she thought of it now her skin flushed
with fear. Yet she could not and would not take it back.
Mace Blackhail was Dagro's foster son, brought
from Scarpe as an eleven-year-old boy. Dagro's first wife, Norala,
had been barren and a chief was always anxious to have sons. Yelma
Scarpe, the Weasel chief, had sent him one. Raina had never liked
him. She saw flaws in her new foster son that her husband had been
blind to. Mace was secretive, he arranged for others to take the
blame for his misdemeanors, and he had never given up being a Scarpe.
Dagro saw it differently. To him Mace could do no wrong. Mace was the
best young swordsman, the most promising strategist and a faithful
son. That blindness had killed Dagro in the end. Mace Blackhail had
planned the murder of his father and chief. Even now Raina did not
know what happened that day in the Badlands, but two things were
certain. Mace had ridden home from the slaughter and lied about the
outcome, and one about that day in the Oldwood and everything she had
worked for might come undone.
Making an effort, Raina said, "When I spoke
with Biddie about using the widows' hearth to house clansmen I recall
no talk of barring Scarpes."
"Well you wouldn't, Raina," Merritt
replied, cool as milk, "as it was my idea to bar them."
Of course it was. Raina had known Merritt Ganlow
for twenty years. Her husband, Meth, had shared a tent with Dagro on
that last fateful longhunt, and the two men had been friends since
childhood. Merritt had a sharp mind to go with her green eyes, and a
prickly way about her. She had taken to widowhood with both zeal and
resentment, and had made no secret of the fact that she disapproved
of Raina's hasty marriage to Mace.
"You have a habit of putting me in a
difficult position, Merritt Ganlow," Raina said to her.
"You have a habit of being in a difficult
position, Raina Blackhail. All I do is point it out."
She was right, of course. The damage to the
roundhouse meant that both Hailish families and Scarpe ones needed
new places to stay. The widows' hearth was, in Raina's opinion, the
finest hall in the entire building. Housed at the pinnacle of the
great dome, it had half a dozen windows that let in light. Someone
had painted the walls with yellow distemper and someone else had
thought to lay wooden boards across the floor. It was a pretty
chamber, airy and full of sunlight. Unlike any other room in this
dour, lamp-lit place.
Take a hold of yourself, Raina warned herself. It
was too late to do anything about where she lived now. The Blackhail
roundhouse had been built for defense, not beauty, and she had known
that from the moment she first spied its hard, drum-shaped walls all
those years ago when riding across the Wedge on the journey from
Dregg. What she needed to concentrate on now was space. Families had
taken to setting down their bedrolls in corridors and storage areas,
and lighting cook-fires and oil lamps wherever they pleased.
Raina glanced around the great half-moon of the
entrance hall. A scrawny boy was chasing an even scrawnier chicken up
the stairs, two Scarpewives dressed in black tunics and black leather
aprons were fussing
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