Drouse Ogmore's voice had broken through his daze. "You will spend half of each day here, working for me. Tomorrow I will expect you at noon."

The guide must have seen some of what had happened, Bram realized later, for he was standing all the while by the door, yet he had never mentioned it, and never again urged Bram to touch the stone. Deciding he'd better get started, Bram put his good foot to the shovel and started digging out snow. He'd been helping at the guide— house for seven days now and it was not the sort of work he would have imagined. He had thought he would learn secrets and history. Surely guides must know the clan histories? Legend had it that when the clanholds won their territory from the Sull the guides drove giant war-carts into battle. Some said that the guidestones themselves were loaded onto those cartbeds. Bram got excited just thinking about it. Such a sight would have been wondrous to see. Why didn't Ogmore talk about that?

The Milk guide just broke rock. He spent most of his days up the stepladder chiseling rock from the stone's northern face, or at his work bench breaking, grinding and sorting the fragments. Sometimes he would use the bow drill, bracing it against his chest with a wooden tile, as he yanked it back and forth. At the rear of the roundhouse there was a stone mill, the kind that could be driven by an ox, but Bram had yet to see Ogmore use it. When Bram asked him about it, the guide had favored him with one of his withering stares. "At Castlemilk we do not waste the gods' breath unless we must."

Considering this statement later, Bram had decided Ogmore was referring to the dust that would get blown away in the wind if the guidestone fragments were ground outside. Certainly Ogmore was obsessed with collecting every last mote that dropped on the guide-house floor. Bram was allowed to sweep only when all doors and windows were closed, and when Ogmore was drilling through one of the hallowed planes of the stone, Bram had to be sure to set down a sheet to capture the sacred powder.

That was another thing he'd learned: Not all parts of the stone were equal. Ogmore divided the Milkstone into faces and planes, and used different sections for different purposes. Ogmore did most of his work on the stone's north face, where the powdered guidestone was mined. Two days ago when word came from Dhoone that a Castlemilk warrior wounded in the retaking had succumbed to his injuries and died, Ogmore had taken his chisel to the southeast corner and cut out a heart-size wedge of stone. The stone there was rich with pyrites and difficult to work and Ogmore had to use pliers at times to cut through the metal. By the time he was finished he had produced something beautiful and gristly, a fitting substitute for a warrior's heart.

Yesterday Bram had watched as Ogmore tapped off a chalky segment from the guidestone's bulbous south face. "Swearstones," he'd replied when asked. None of it so far had been what Bram expected. It was strenuous work, and he'd fall into bed at night, aching and sweating, his eyes and throat scoured by dust. So far Ogmore had not allowed him to grind or sort the stone. He hauled it, swept it, oiled and cared for the tools, spread the dust sheets, split timber for the smoke fires, cleaned the workbenches, fetched water from the river, scrubbed the collecting basins and shoveled snow. Nathaniel Shayrac was permitted to grind and pan-sift the fragments, though no one but the guide himself ever took a chisel to the Milkstone.

Bram paused in his shoveling to survey his work. The double doors of the guidehouse now had a ten-foot space cleared around them, and some fairly neat mounds of chucked snow lay off to the sides. The question was: Would ten feet be enough? Bram thought of Ogmore, frowned and then resumed shoveling. Another five were called for.

He thought about the clan guide's riding to battle as he worked. That would be a fine thing, he decided. To be able to fight and possess knowledge all at once.

He was faint with exhaustion by the time he was done. His knees were loose and wobbly, and the sword blister on the right hand had swollen to the size of an eyeball and split He had to use his little finger to work the doorlatch.

Switching from the afternoon dazzle of snow to the shadows of the guidehouse took some adjustment, and Bram was caught off-guard when Nathaniel's pale face loomed close to his.

He tutted, shooting out missiles of bad breath. "How does it feel to have your brother sell you?"

Bram swung at him. Nathaniel was prepared and jumped back. Bram tried to track his shape in the murky dimness, thought he detected a movement and took a second swipe. Striking air, he fell off balance and couldn't get his treacherous knees to save him. As he fell Nathaniel punched him in the head.

'Young men," hissed Drouse Ogmore, "control yourselves."

The guide stood at the southeast corner of the guidestone and glared at them. Bram blinked. The guidehouse was rocking and he needed it to stop. For some reason he smelled skinned rabbit—the smell of his mother's workroom growing up.

"Take it," Ogmore said.

Bram wondered what he meant, and then something skin-colored and fan-shaped dropped into view. A hand.. Nathaniel's hand. It would help if he could keep it still. Tentatively, Bram sent up his own hand and watched as it swayed back and forth like pondweed before Nathaniel's came and gobbled it up.

The pain of the split blister being squeezed of its juice brought Bram round. Yanked to his feet, he sent everything he had to his knees, it was barely enough to keep him upright.

"I'll have no fighting in this guidehouse, do you hear me?" Ogmore's gaze darted between Bram and Nathaniel.

"He was"

"No excuses," snapped the guide, silencing Nathaniel. "You shame the gods with petty blame."

Nathaniels long face, with its uncommon amount of space between the nostrils and upper lip, colored hotly.

"Go to the roundhouse and fetch my supper." Ogmorc stared hard at Nathaniel until he moved. Then, turning to Bram, "You. In the back with me."

Bram concentrated on his knees as he followed Ogmore's swirling pigskins around the eastern face of the Milkstone.

The rear section of the guidehouse had been partitioned off from the main hall and several small rooms had been framed. Ogmore's private sleeping chamber was located here, as well as a small dining area, and stockrooms. Leading Bram into the dining area, Ogmore said, "Sit. Take some water."

Bram sat on the polished birch bench with great care, like a man who had drunk too much and was trying to conceal it The table was rocking and he thought he might be sick.

Perhaps realizing that it was going to take Bram some time to get to the water, Ogmore poured a cup and handed it to him. "Do you know why this guidehouse is made out of wood and not stone?

Anticipating that it would be better to speak than shake his head, Bram said., "No."

"The old clan guide, Meadmorn Castlemilk, designed it so that if it's ever besieged we can torch it and bum alive those who would steal our stone." Ogmore paused and then told Bram, "Drink."

Bram did. The water was cool and gritty.

"The Milkstone would not be burned. Changed perhaps, but not destroyed. Meadmorn reckoned it worth the risk." Drome Ogmore looked straight at Raif, his deep-set eyes gleaming in the light of the half-shuttered window. "A flaming can sometimes stop things from falling into the wrong hands."

Water gurgled in Bram s stomach as he realized that Ogmore was talking about Robbie.

"Count yourself lucky, Bram Cormac, that you are here."

He didn't come out and say it, but Bram knew what he meant Better to have been burned than stay in Robbie Dun Dhoone's hands. Bram made no reply. Robbie was his brother and he would die rather than speak a word against him.