Traggis Mole's hand came up as he lightly touched his ribs through the fabric of his cloak. "And here is where I stay."

He knows, Raif realized, hearing the bleakness in his voice.

Traggis Mole met gazes with Raif, breathed hard through his wooden nose and then looked away.

"Everyone who saw you shoot against Tanjo Ten Arrow at the test of arrows saw what you could do with a bow. The outlander Thomas Argola reckons you can do more. He came to me the day after the wrall passed through the city, and you know what he said?"

Raif could imagine, but he shook his head. "He said if I were you, Mole Chief, I'd pray for Twelve Kill's return."

The Mole moved and in an instant was directly in front of Raif's face, his gloved hand grasping the collar of the Orrl cloak. "What did he mean by that?"

Updrafts were rising, and the first hollow notes of Rift Music sounded. Raif smelled cat meat cooking nine stories below him. "You must have asked him."

For a moment Raif thought Traggis Mole would pull out one of his famous longknives and stab him in the throat. Yet he didn't. With a springing motion of his hand he released Raif's cloak. "I am asking you."

The calm in his voice sounded dangerous to Raif. "I can't tell you what the outlander knows. I've only spoken to him a handful of times and what he said made no sense. I can tell you that I have seen and fought those beings you call wralls. I have killed some. I can do it again."

Here was the knowledge he had been waiting for, the one thing that this meeting was about. Raif saw it now, saw the world of fear living behind the Mole Chief's black eyes. Saw it and knew it wasn't for himself. We are alike, Raif realized with a small start. Both watching.

Both wounded.

Traggis Mole said, "Will you defend your Rift Brothers?"

The words were formal, and to Raif they sounded like an oath. He thought before he answered. He did not want to speak a second He. Some wary part of his brain checked for clauses. The words sounded like a simple request; they did not appear to conceal a trap. Only yesterday he had spoken a promise to Stillborn and Addie Gunn. I will become Lord of the Rift. Surely the two were one and the same?

Raif glanced at the Robber Chief, Traggis Mole. Why did he not ask for anything for himself?

The answer was beneath his cloak. Perhaps not even realizing he did so, Traggis Mole stood bent at the waist

"I will defend the Rift Brothers." Raif tried, but could not keep the ring of oathspeaking from his voice, and the words bounced off the cliffwall and echoed across the Rift to the clanholds.

Oathbreaker, that was his Blackhail name.

But the Robber Chief did not know it.

Traggis Mole nodded once, and then called to some unseen watcher down below, directing him to lower the drawbridge.

He and Raif stood feet apart, watching each other as men climbed stairs and loosed ropes.

"Go," the Robber Chief commanded once the narrow wooden drawbridge was seated upon the lip of the stack.

The instant before Raif turned he saw a single curl of black smoke rising through the gap in Traggis Mole's horsehide cloak.

The wrall's sword had sunk deep into the meat between his ribs, and now he was being eaten alive.

Raif felt the wound in his shoulder twitch in sympathy as he crossed the drawbridge in the dark.

TWENTY-TWO The Menhir Fire

Raina soaked in the copper bath and let her thoughts drift with the steam. It was good to be weightless. Her breasts floated on the surface, hot and pink, as her hand idly passed between her legs. Later her presence would be needed at the Hallowing of the guidestone, but for now she could simply float.

Jebb Onnacre had brought the tub to her chamber and Anwyn had drawn a bath with rosemary and precious ambergris. The scent was sweet and peppery, like baked fruit. Oil swirled on the water, trembling as Raina breathed. Dagro had liked to watch her bathe, and she had learned over time to enjoy being watched. Boldly she would raise her legs from the water and ask if he found her clean.

Pushing her toes against the base of the tub, Raina rose to standing. There was too much confusion down that path. Mace Blackhail had robbed that pleasure from her, the remembering of her first husband's lovemaking. She could glimpse it but if she looked too long, newer images were overlaid over the old ones. Son instead of father. Dead leaves between her legs. Stepping out of the bath, Raina twisted her wet hair into a knot and wrung it dry. She had never returned to the Oldwood. When she was chief she was going to have it chopped down.

Anwyn had laid out all manner of pretty things for Raina to dally with. Shell combs, silk ribbons, perfumed unctions, a silver mirror, rouge—how in the name of lone had she come by that? Toweling herself dry with a yellow shammy Raina frowned in mild puzzlement. There was a message here, in all these maiden's gewgaws and paints, and if she thought about it long enough it wasn't flattering. Yes, Anwyn meant to treat her. The clan matron was one of the very few people in this roundhouse who knew what Raina felt about being forced to participate in tonight's events. Yet a hot bath alone would have sufficed as a treat. This armory of prettiness laid out on a crisply pressed sheet was something more.

Anwyn must have called in some favors, for she was a woman who when presented with a pot of rouge would use it to grease cow udders. The one thing she had in her comer was her total mastery and control of the clan kitchen. The clan maids might turn up their noses at mutton stew and boiled pork, but they'd hand over valuable equipment for honeycakes, dried and sugared apricots and plum wine. Raina sat on the corner of the bed and picked up a weapon at random. It was a needle of bone with a flat end that felt like sand paper. A buffer? Experimentally, Raina brushed it against her teeth. Dear gods, either Anwyn had made a mistake and included a woodworking tool amongst the trinkets or maids today had declared tooth enamel outdated. Raina put it back in its place and picked up the hairbrush instead. Her hair was tangled from lack of care so she rubbed a little unction on the toothcombs. That was better. It even smelled nice. By the time the waist-length, honey-colored locks were finally combed out the ends were beginning to dry.

Still naked, she reached for the rouge, sniffed it, tested it on the back of her hand, rejected it, then put some on her cheeks anyway. And then rubbed it off. Crucial seconds passed as she inspected herself in the mirror. No, she did not look like a city bawd. Her face actually looked better with some color, as if she'd been out riding or had an hour or two of sun.

Of course now that she saw herself she realized Anwyn's point. Tonight everyone in the clan would be gathered to watch the Hallowing of the new Hailstone. It was a ceremony you could live entire lifetimes and never see. People would be excited and expectant. It had to go well; the future of Blackhail depended upon it. Many clansmen and women would participate in the Calling of the Gods, but only one person would bear the Menhir Fire, and up until an hour ago that person had been walking about the roundhouse as pale and grubby as a cellar maid. Even if she did not honor the stone she must honor her fellow clansmen: that was the catch of tonight. Wisely, Anwyn had understood this and given Raina a gentle push in the right direction.

Raina Blackhail, wife to two chiefs, must welcome the new Hailstone with reverence, properly groomed and attired. Everyone in the clan had sons, fathers or brothers at war. She must honor them It was as simple as that She must think of Blackball, not Stannig Beade and Scarpe, must imagine the wishes of her first husband Dagro, not those of her second husband Mace.