SEVENTEEN The Clan That Walks Swords

It was two hours past sunset and the Milkhouse's primary door was closed and unlit. Bram Cormac hesitated to approach it and demand entry. The ferryman who had transported Bram and his horse across the Milk River was poling his barge away from the shore. "Do'na dawdle, boy. The longer you leave it the harder you'll have to knock." Laughing as if he'd said something amusing, the ferryman floated away.

Bram looked at his feet. They were wet; the barge had taken in water once the weight of Guy Morloch's stallion had settled upon it. Still, it was better than having to swim across. Last time Bram was here there had been no ferryman to provide crossing.

Gaberil, Guy's horse, nosed Bram's side, playful now that the trauma of the crossing was behind him. "Easy, Gabbie," Bram murmured, absently running his hand over the horse's mane as he stared at the massive glowing dome of the Milkhouse. "I just need a moment to decide what to do."

It wasn't the truth. He knew what he must do—there was no decision involved—but it didn't mean that he couldn't stand here for a bit and just wait.

He had been lucky in a way, for the journey here had been his own. Once Guy Morloch and Jordie Sarson had left for the Stonefly, running off to alert Dhoonesmen to the Dog Lord's presence, Bram had no one to answer to but himself. Such a thing had never happened to him before and it had been scary, but also good. He'd remembered falling asleep that first night, crazily bedding down on an exposed hillside without fire or tent, thinking Gods, what am I going to do? Now he knew the answer. Go slow.

Without anyone to shepherd him to the Milkhouse, Bram Cormac could take his time. It did not change his obligation to this clan, just delayed it by a few days. It was freedom and the Dog Lord of Clan Bludd had bought it for him, and Bram thought he'd better enjoy it while it lasted.

The best possible thing had happened that next morning. Bram had been woken by a bored horse. The night before Gabbie had fled in terror and panic as Vaylo Bludd's dogs closed in on him. He'd thrown his rider, Guy Morloch, and trampled one of the dogs. Bram thought he'd seen the last of him—a spooked horse far from home might simply take off and never come back— but Gabbie was smart, and although he'd spent only a short time on the hillside southeast of Dhoone, he'd found his way back overnight. Wasn't a bit sorry, either.

The two of them had shared a good breakfast of cheesebread and raw leeks, and once Bram had sorted out Gabbie's saddle—it had ended up beneath him, hanging from his belly—they'd taken a ride south. It had been a perfect day, Bram remembered, with a fresh breeze and just the right amount of cloud. It wasn't long before they'd run into the Fleece, a deep and narrow tributary of the Flow. They'd followed the Fleece west for a while toward Wellhouse, but when Bram spotted a settlement of tied clansman's cottages on the shore ahead, he turned Gabbie around and began looking for a crossing.

The land south of Dhoone was dotted with limestone farmhouses. Barely, wheat, oats and rye were grown here, and squares of burned stubble poking through thawing snow became a familiar sight to Bram. He'd spent two nights camping on the north shore of the Fleece, enjoying the unfamiliar sensation of being master of his own time. Mabb Cormac had taught both his sons how to fish, and Bram had whittled a pole and unraveled the border of one of his woolen blankets for twine. He didn't catch anything, but he learned why men loved to fish. You could do nothing and something at exactly the same time.

The weather changed and it rained a bit, then snowed. Gabbie shivered until he was given a blanket, and then began to chew on it. Bram thought about taking it away, but didn't. He decided it was quite possible for a horse to digest wool.

Eventually they crossed the river. An ancient hog-backed bridge spanned the Fleece just west of Clan Camber. The tiny clanhold defended the crossing with a stone and timber redoubt and a system of pulleys and river chains, but for some reason they weren't manned. Later that day Bram ran into a tied Camberman driving a pair of white oxen with a stick. The man had taken one look at Bram's Dhoone-blue cloak and driven his cattle from the road.

After that incident, Bram had considered taking off the fine cloak given to him by his brother Robbie and switching it for his old ratty half-cape. The cloak identified him not only as a Dhoonesman, but also as one of Robbie's elite crew of warriors. Bram didn't want to get into any fights. Still, he had to admit he'd felt a small thrill when the Camberman left the rode to make way for him—such was the reputation of Robbie Dun Dhoone.

In the end Bram had decided to continue wearing the cloak. His reasons were complicated and not all of them were noble. Soon enough he would wear the cream wool of Castlemilk.

He tried not to think of it, and mostly that worked as a strategy. Castlemilk later. Travel in the now. Once several years back, before Bludd had seized the Dhoonehouse, and while Maggis was still chief, a visitor had come to the roundhouse. Maggis spent half a day in conference with the stranger and later walked with him around the clanhold, introducing him to various clansmen and women. Bram was curious about the stranger, but had assumed he would not be introduced—he was twelve at the time and smaller his age and of little consequence to anyone except his mother, Tilda. Yet the stranger had spotted Bram spreading hay for the horses in the stable. The stranger had been talking with the swordmaster Jackdaw Thundy in a manner that suggested they were old and good friends. "Is he one of Cormac's boys?" the stranger had asked Jackdaw, nodding his head toward Bram. "Aye," Jackdaw had replied. "That's Mabb's youngest, Bram. Come over here, boy, and meet the ranger Angus Lok."

Up until then Bram had never heard of such a thing as a ranger, yet the unfamiliar word had caused a flutter in his chest. Angus Lok greeted him soberly man-to-man, and for a wonder he didn't ask any of the questions that Bram normally dreaded: How come you don't look like your brother Rab? Did Bodie Hallax pull you from hammer training, or did you just drop out? Is it true your brothers related to the Dhoone kings? Instead Angus Lok inquired about Bram's mother, asked Bram's opinion on his new sword—drawing it smartly on cue for Bram's inspection—and told Bram he should not neglect his studies; sword and pen was better than sword alone. Bram had been mightily impressed. The meeting had lasted only scant minutes, but it left him with a good feeling that had endured for months. He recalled seeking out Jackdaw Thundy some time later and asking him about the ranger. "Angus is a dying breed," Jackdaw had said. "Circles like a hawk, waits like a spider. Knows the North like its a wheatfield he's planted, and spends so much time in the saddle that it's a wonder he's not got wishbones for legs," It was a curiously vague answer, but Bram hadn't realized that at the time. Instead he was taken with the romance of a man crossing the country on a horse, alone, and watchful as a hawk.

That was how Bram had spent most of those free days after Guy Morloch and Jordie Sarson had left him; riding and being watchful, a hawk and a spider.

He wished he knew more about the histories. Every day he passed lengths of standing wall, broken bits of fortifications, paved roads gone to seed, bumed-out barns, dismantled river dams, ancient way markers, sealed wells, burial mounds. Ruins, all of them. Whenever he spotted something interesting he stopped to inspect it, brushing away moss or snow, dead leaves or cobwebs: whatever had accumulated over time. Occasionally he spied faint signs scribed into the stone, but mostly the surfaces were blank. Markings had been worn away, dissolved by rain and tannins, and scoured by the wind. History had been lost. Who had built the perfectly placed dam on the Fleece? And who had destroyed it?