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Authors: J. V. Jones
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around a vat full of potash and lye, a handful
of tied Hailsmen had claimed the space under the stair as a gaming
room and were lounging in a circle, downing flat ale and throwing
dice. On either side of the greatdoor burlap sacks stuffed with
bedclothes, pots and pans and other household items had been stacked
ten feet high against the wall.
It would not do. Merritt and her sisterhood of
widows knew that too and when Raina had approached them about giving
up their hearth they had expressed willingness to do so. Only now,
two days later Merritt Ganlow had tied some strings to the deal.
"You like the thought of Scarpes in the
widows' hearth as much as I do," Merritt said, her voice
creeping higher. "The widows' wall used to mean something in
this clan. You needed a bracelet of scarred flesh to stand there."
Yanking up the sleeve of her work dress, Merritt thrust out her left
wrist toward Raina. The widows' weals were plain to see. Ugly purple
scars that would not be allowed to heal for a year. Every woman who
lost a husband in Blackhail cut herself, scoring a circle around each
wrist with a ritual knife known as a grieveblade. Raina had always
thought it a barbaric practice, hailing back to the Time of the First
Clans, yet when Dagro had died she had begun to understand it. The
pain of cutting her flesh had been nothing—nothing—compared
with losing Dagro. Strangely, it had helped. When the blood pumped
from her veins and rolled around her wrists she had felt some measure
of relief.
To Merritt she said, "You cannot blame Scarpe
widows for not practicing the same rituals as we do. Their pain is
still the same."
Merritt was contemptuous. "They tattoo the
weals—dainty little lines inked in red. And they heal within a
week. Then what? They're like bitches in heat. Run off and remarry so
fast it's as if they never gave a damn for their first husbands all
along. And I tell you another thing—"
"Hold your tongue," Raina hissed. She
was shaking, frightened by how close she had come to slapping Merritt
Ganlow. He raped me! she wanted to scream. That's why I remarried so
fast. Mace Blackhail took me by force and told everyone I agreed to
it. They believed him. And if I hadn't married him I would have
forsaken my reputation and my place in this clan.
Merritt glanced around nervously. Too late she
realized her raised voice had drawn unwanted attention her way. The
men under the stairs had halted their gaming and were looking with
some interest at the head widow and the chief's wife. The two
Scarpewives—pale women with dyed-black hair and lips stained
red with mercury, stared at Merritt and Raina with unconcealed
dislike.
"Open up! Warriors returning."
Three hard, deep raps against the greatdoor
followed the shouted command, and all attention shifted from Raina
and Merritt to the half ton of force-hardened rootwood that barred
the Hailhold's primary entrance. Straightaway, things started
happening. Mull Shank appeared out of nowhere and together he and one
of the young Tanner boys began lifting the iron bars from their
cradles. The cry "Warriors returning!" was relayed through
the entrance hall and up the stairs toward the greathearth. Anwyn
Bird, who had the ears of a deer and the uncanny ability to know
exactly when her strong beer was needed, emerged from the kitchen
cellar, hoisting a two-gallon keg on her shoulder.
As the door was pushed back on its greased track,
Raina turned to Merritt Ganlow. "So you're set on opening the
widows' hearth solely to Hailsmen?"
Merritt's face had slackened somewhat during all
the excitement, and for a moment Raina hoped that it might stay that
way. It wasn't to be. Merritt's mouth tightened and her chin came up.
"I'm sorry, Raina, but I won't change my mind. This is the
Hailhold, not the Scarpehold, and if someone doesn't make a stand
against it we'll all be wearing the weasel pelts before we're
through." With that, the clan widow stalked away, staring down
the
of tied Hailsmen had claimed the space under the stair as a gaming
room and were lounging in a circle, downing flat ale and throwing
dice. On either side of the greatdoor burlap sacks stuffed with
bedclothes, pots and pans and other household items had been stacked
ten feet high against the wall.
It would not do. Merritt and her sisterhood of
widows knew that too and when Raina had approached them about giving
up their hearth they had expressed willingness to do so. Only now,
two days later Merritt Ganlow had tied some strings to the deal.
"You like the thought of Scarpes in the
widows' hearth as much as I do," Merritt said, her voice
creeping higher. "The widows' wall used to mean something in
this clan. You needed a bracelet of scarred flesh to stand there."
Yanking up the sleeve of her work dress, Merritt thrust out her left
wrist toward Raina. The widows' weals were plain to see. Ugly purple
scars that would not be allowed to heal for a year. Every woman who
lost a husband in Blackhail cut herself, scoring a circle around each
wrist with a ritual knife known as a grieveblade. Raina had always
thought it a barbaric practice, hailing back to the Time of the First
Clans, yet when Dagro had died she had begun to understand it. The
pain of cutting her flesh had been nothing—nothing—compared
with losing Dagro. Strangely, it had helped. When the blood pumped
from her veins and rolled around her wrists she had felt some measure
of relief.
To Merritt she said, "You cannot blame Scarpe
widows for not practicing the same rituals as we do. Their pain is
still the same."
Merritt was contemptuous. "They tattoo the
weals—dainty little lines inked in red. And they heal within a
week. Then what? They're like bitches in heat. Run off and remarry so
fast it's as if they never gave a damn for their first husbands all
along. And I tell you another thing—"
"Hold your tongue," Raina hissed. She
was shaking, frightened by how close she had come to slapping Merritt
Ganlow. He raped me! she wanted to scream. That's why I remarried so
fast. Mace Blackhail took me by force and told everyone I agreed to
it. They believed him. And if I hadn't married him I would have
forsaken my reputation and my place in this clan.
Merritt glanced around nervously. Too late she
realized her raised voice had drawn unwanted attention her way. The
men under the stairs had halted their gaming and were looking with
some interest at the head widow and the chief's wife. The two
Scarpewives—pale women with dyed-black hair and lips stained
red with mercury, stared at Merritt and Raina with unconcealed
dislike.
"Open up! Warriors returning."
Three hard, deep raps against the greatdoor
followed the shouted command, and all attention shifted from Raina
and Merritt to the half ton of force-hardened rootwood that barred
the Hailhold's primary entrance. Straightaway, things started
happening. Mull Shank appeared out of nowhere and together he and one
of the young Tanner boys began lifting the iron bars from their
cradles. The cry "Warriors returning!" was relayed through
the entrance hall and up the stairs toward the greathearth. Anwyn
Bird, who had the ears of a deer and the uncanny ability to know
exactly when her strong beer was needed, emerged from the kitchen
cellar, hoisting a two-gallon keg on her shoulder.
As the door was pushed back on its greased track,
Raina turned to Merritt Ganlow. "So you're set on opening the
widows' hearth solely to Hailsmen?"
Merritt's face had slackened somewhat during all
the excitement, and for a moment Raina hoped that it might stay that
way. It wasn't to be. Merritt's mouth tightened and her chin came up.
"I'm sorry, Raina, but I won't change my mind. This is the
Hailhold, not the Scarpehold, and if someone doesn't make a stand
against it we'll all be wearing the weasel pelts before we're
through." With that, the clan widow stalked away, staring down
the
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