Ogmore knew this. Resting bis powerful, scarred and callused hands on the table, he seemed satisfied at what he had said.

As the rocking in Bram s head subsided, he realized that the guide must have overheard Nathaniel's words. Why else speak of Robbie at this moment?

Ogmore was capable of reading thoughts, for he said, "Nathaniel is worried you will take his place as my apprentice."

Bram heard the rise in the guide's voice, and understood what it meant. He waited.

Ogmore stood and crossed the short distance to the window, Bram assumed he would close the shutter as the sun was fading and a frost was setting in, yet the guide threw it back— "Castlemtlk needs two things above all else," he said, looking east toward the Milkhouse and the broken Sull tower where Robbie Dun Dhoone and his men had garrisoned over winter. "Our numbers of young warriors are depleted, They have been wooed away by the promised glory of Dhoone, and we wait, and they do not return. Above all things a clan must be able to defend its borders and protect its house. I am clan guide and I do not say this lightly so hear me well: When a clan is under threat the gods must take second place. Our gods are hard and dread, but they made us what we are. And what we are is clansmen. Given a choice we will fight. The gods know this, and even if they do not forgive, they under-stand"

Turning from the window, his shoulders limned by failing light, Ogmore searched Bram's face. "So now you know the rankings. Warriors first Guide second. Yet there are many warriors …. and one guide. Tell me then, Bram Cormac, who is most important?"

Bram could not. He remained silent.

Ogmore appeared unsurprised yet at the same time stirred. "As we stand hear and speak Blackhail fails. Do you know why?"

"Their guidestone shattered."

"No." Ogmore spoke with force. "A new stone can be quarried, new powder can replace the old in warriors pouches, it is possible to recover over time from such blows, yet the Blackhail guide foiled his clan so absolutely he sent it spiraling down into hell" Bram felt hairs prickle along his arms. "He trained no replacement. He died with his stone in the darkness of night and the next day Blackhail was doomed. There was no one to step in and guide the clan in the days when it most needed guiding. Fatal mistakes were made. The remains of the Hailstone were left to lie on open ground, in plain sight of clan. The Walk of Secession was not performed, and clansmen and clanswomen walked with the tainted powder at their waists and did not know it was tainted. A new clan guide was brought in from Scarpe and hauled half of the Scarpestone north in a cart. This monstrosity was hallowed five nights back. The crimes against the gods are many and continue, and while Blackhail lives with an alien stone at its heart it will never rise from the hole dug by its own guide."

It was close to dark now and Bram could no longer see Ogmore's face. He wondered how the guide knew so much about Blackhail, then remembered Wrayan's speech about the birds.

'Tell me now," Drouse Ogmore said, his voice spun with small prickles, "who is most important: warrior or guide?"

Bram bowed his head. The morion started the room rocking one final time. "Guide."

Drouse Ogmore left the word in silence so Bram could feel the waves it created. Minutes passed as they stared at each other and only when it was frill dark and the only light in the room came from smoke-nres next door did Ogmore speak.

"Castlemilk needs an apprentice guide. If I die we need someone to continue the ways of the stone. The mistakes of Blackhail cannot be ignored. The Milkstone must be protected. And known. I must teach someone the places to drill and not to drill, the weak points, the oil reservoirs, the hollows that must never fill with ice. Knowledge of the old ceremonies must be passed on, for someone in this clan must always know how to mount a Chief Watch, replace and hallow a new guidestone, accept the oaths of its warriors, choose lores for its newborns and chisel hearts. Such are the dealing of a guide, and I would pass them on to you."

"Will I learn the histories?" Bram asked.

Ogmore looked at him strangely. "Scholars do not make good guides."

Bram opened his mouth to ask why, but Ogmore forestalled him with a raised hand.

"We will speak no more. Do not give me your answer now. I know you work hard at your swordsmanship under Selco and Burmish. I also know you spend two hours in the dairy each morning, performing the simple task necessary for feeding clan. Both of these endeavors are right and fitting. For now I would have you continue all of them, including assisting me in this house, but know this: I will ask for a choice. When sufficient time has passed for contemplation I will call you into the presence of the Milkstone and an answer must be given." Drouse Ogmore walked to the edge of the table and leant across it so that his face was inches away from Bram's. "I saw you that day when you touched the stone—it reached toward you. You must decide if you are willing to reach back."

The guide pushed himself to upright and left the room. Bram sat alone in the darkness and watched as smoke poured under the door.

TWENTY-EIGHT The Rift Awakens

Raif was awaiting delivery of the Forsworn sword. Stillborn had sent it to Piggie Blesdo for a refiring four days back and had gone off this morning to retrieve it. Piggie was an ex-Dhoonesmen and blacksmith who had built a tower furnace on one of the high eastern ledges, and did most of the steelwork for the Maimed Men. Stillborn had gone to retrieve it three hours back, but Raif wasn't worried by his absence. Stillborn was an expert at whiling time. Besides, it was good to be alone.

Yelma, Stillbom'sMnd-filled quintain, was'-creaking on her iron chain that was suspended above the fight circle. For reasons Raif could not guess, Stillborn had dressed up the practice dummy in ugly iron turtle armor and a red skirt. She didn't have a head, but the top of her torso boasted a fleece hat with ear warmers. Stillborn had nailed it in place. Raif had taken a few swipes at her earlier, but had quickly lost interest. He had not yet found the balance of the sword Stillborn had lent to him, yet even with that disadvantage it was too easy to spike the quintain's heart Stillborn's cave consisted of a single chamber shaped like a wedge of cheese turned on its side. The rock ceiling above the cave mouth and fight circle was high and vaulted, but toward the back of the cave, the ceiling lowered sharply and ended, thirty feet into the cliff cave, in a point. The point was where Stillborn stowed his least-used possess-sions; rusted spears, heaps of old clothing, an iron bathtub, a stool with a broken leg, a preserved bear head, several saddles, a silver urn decorated with enameled balls, and other trophies from his raids and hunts. Raif sat among them, the rock ceiling less than a hand's length above his head, and tried to decide if it was worth sanding the rust from one of the spears. The spear he had in his hand was good and heavy, its shaft made from a single piece of rolled iron, its head bladed with a rusted but decent point. Stillborn had told him to help himself to anything he found here. "Except the bear head," he'd added thoughtfully, squinting into the possession pile. "I might have a go of tacking that on Yelma."

To remove himself and the spear from the tight wedge of the back wall, Raif had to walk in a crouch, holding the spear horizontal at his waist. Ahead, he saw a figure step into the light surrounding the cave mouth. Raif moved through the shadows toward it.

Mallia Argola gave a small scream as she spied him coming toward her, armed.

"No," Raif cried out, holding the spear away from his body. "I… I'm just going to clean it."