Yet Longhead was right Something had to be done about it But what? And who was left to decide?
Raina studied Longhead's face carefully. He was a man who had grown into hit name, developing in his later years a high forehead and a long chin. Never married and seldom courted, he spent most of his time working alone and in silence Raina wasn't even sure it Longhead was his first name or last, or some nickname he'd picked up along the| way. She wasn't sure about much to do with the head keep, she realized. Including where his allegiances lay.
Looking into his bloodshot eyes she wondered if she detected some disapproval of her husband, Mace Blackhail. Above all else Longhead was a man who liked to get things done, and Mace's failure to reach a decision about the remains of the guidestone was preventing Longhead from completing the most important task in the clanhold: rebuilding the eastern wall. Part of Raina couldn't even blame Mace. He was clan chief, not clan guide. He guarded men's bodies, not their souls.
Inigar Stoop was dead, and he had neither trained nor picked a successor. So who was left to save them?
It was a question that kept Raina awake at night, sweating and turning in her bed. The gods had abandoned Blackhail, and there was no clan guide to call them back.
Had Inigar realized the depth of his failure as the first splinters from the guidestone punctured his heart? Raina thought it likely that he had, and she felt some measure of pity for him. He had been a difficult man and she had not liked him, but during the last few years of their acquaintance she had found him worthy of respect.
Aware that Longhead was still awaiting her response, Raina made a decision. Gesturing toward the remains of the guidehouse, she said, "I will speak with my husband in due course."
She could tell from the slight shrinking of his pupils that this answer did not satisfy him. She had chosen caution and spoken as a good wife, and she could see now he had expected more from her. He must have watched her this past week, she realized. Seen how she had taken charge of caring for the wounded, setting up a surgery in the dim and yeasty-smelling warmth of the oasthouse, and arranging to have potions, wound dressings and medicinal herbs brought in from every farmhouse within ten leagues. She had been the one to decide that the stables should be housed in the old dairy shed and that the horses be buried in the Wedge. When Anwyn had asked where the dispossessed Scarpemen should be housed, Raina had not deferred the decision to her husband; she was making arrangements for their shelter even now. The same with the relocation of the hayloft and a dozen other things. She had made all decisions herself.
The question of what to do about the remains of the guidestone was different She had no expertise here. No one did. And although she recognized Longhead's query as an opportunity to claim power she did not want to gain it at the clan's expense. There were matters here too important for that. The future would be set by the stone. Whatever became of its remains would be remembered by every man, woman and child in this clan. History would record it, rival clans would judge it, and scholars and holymen would mull over its significance for a thousand years. Nothing less than the pride and future of Blackhail was at stake.
So no. She would not decide the Hailstone's fate single-handed, and if that disappointed Longhead then so be it. 'Talk to me tomorrow" Raina said to him, taking her leave. "I'll know more then." Stepping smartly around a cord of logs, she left him staring at the back of her head.
She felt a little breathless as she entered the smoky dimness of the roundhouse. It took some getting used to, this business of wielding power.
Two skunks and a handful of raccoons had been spotted in the roundhouse this past week, and Raina noticed the scent of animal musk as she made her way through the ruined east hall. It was cold too, and air switched back and forth as the wind moved through the wall. Oh, they had tarped and timbered it, but the outside still got in.
How could it not? Seven days ago the Hailstone had exploded and blown open the entire roundhouse. According to Hatty Hare, who had been up early, intending to ride out from the roundhouse to set traps, a giant fireball had rolled through the guide corridor and out along the stables. Hatty had been knocked off her feet. When she was found, three hours later, she was buried beneath a foot of dust and char. Bailie the Red, who'd been riding back from Duff's stovehouse when it happened, told a story of seeing a flash of silver lightning split the northern sky. Raina herself had seen the great mushroom cloud of dust rising from the guidehouse, heard the whirr and snap of timbers as chunks of stone flooring collapsed. The hole punched in the eastern wall wasn't that big really—about fifteen feet by twenty—yet the wall was three-feet-thick sandstone and the floor underneath had been unable to cope with the weight.
The roundhouse was still finding its level. Just last night part of the ceiling in the chief's chamber had collapsed. Water was coming in from somewhere-Longhead pronounced it likely to be a broken well system—and the lower chambers were knee-deep in sludge.
worked harder than Anwyn Bird, no one was up earlier or went to bed later, or did as much good for the clan. Gods help you, though if you even suggested that she might need a helping hand. Raina had taken so many scoldings over the matter that she now left Anwyn to herself Well, almost. Anwyn Bird was her dearest, oldest friend and she could not stand by and watch her work herself to the bone.
Merritt wrinkled her nose as Jebb dragged away the carcass. "We've taken a vote," she said to Raina, wasting no time. "The widows have decided to give up their hearth—but only for use by Hailsmen, mind. We won't have no Scarpes near the wall."
And so it continues. Raina took a deep breath, orienting herself to deal with this newly delivered problem. Dagro had once told her that in cities they had halls of learning where men could study ancient histories, languages, astronomy, mathematics and other wondrous things. He said it could take a decade to master a discipline. Raina had thought it rather long at the time. Right now she'd like to go there, and take all ten years to learn to be a chief.
I will be chief. Two months ago she had spoken those words out loud in the gameroom, and even though only two people in the clan had heard them—Anwyn Bird and Orwin Shank—it did not lessen their meaning. She had spoken treason against her husband and chief, and when she thought of it now her skin flushed with fear. Yet she could not and would not take it back.
Mace Blackhail was Dagro's foster son, brought from Scarpe as an eleven-year-old boy. Dagro's first wife, Norala, had been barren and a chief was always anxious to have sons. Yelma Scarpe, the Weasel chief, had sent him one. Raina had never liked him. She saw flaws in her new foster son that her husband had been blind to. Mace was secretive, he arranged for others to take the blame for his misdemeanors, and he had never given up being a Scarpe. Dagro saw it differently. To him Mace could do no wrong. Mace was the best young swordsman, the most promising strategist and a faithful son. That blindness had killed Dagro in the end. Mace Blackhail had planned the murder of his father and chief. Even now Raina did not know what happened that day in the Badlands, but two things were certain. Mace had ridden home from the slaughter and lied about the outcome, and one about that day in the Oldwood and everything she had worked for might come undone.
Making an effort, Raina said, "When I spoke with Biddie about using the widows' hearth to house clansmen I recall no talk of barring Scarpes."