A Cavern of Black Ice (64 page)

Slipping beside her, he took her in his
arms and pulled the elk coat over them both. He held her, shivering
and silent, until she fell asleep.

Raif's mind drifted with the icy
stillness of the night. Angus kept watch, occasionally walking
between the horses and the steep bank that led down to the lake.
Strings of mist from the Spill slithered across the snow like snakes.
Overhead, the half-moon shone through a mesh of clouds. Raif thought
of Drey, of the time Drey had fallen through the ice in Cold Lake and
Raif had held him as he held Ash now. Tem had been mad with anger,
furious at Drey for running on thin ice. It was a month after their
mother had died. All the Sevrances had done wild, dangerous things
that month.

"Raif."

Raif looked up, surprised to see Angus
crouching close. He began to rise.

"Nay, lad. Stay where you are.
I'll stand both watches tonight." Angus nodded toward Ash. "Is
she sleeping?"

"Yes."

"Resting in her mind?"

Raif nodded. He couldn't recall at what
point during the past four days Angus had come to know about the
connection between him and Ash, but he did, and the question he asked
showed it. Unsure how he felt about that, Raif was silent for a
moment, thinking. Finally he said, "About what I said earlier—"

"Hush, lad. Don't think for one
moment I didn't deserve it. What you and Ash said was right and
proper: You have a right to know what you're putting yourself in
danger for." Angus slid his hand inside his tunic and pulled out
his rabbit flask; that was one thing that hadn't been lost with the
saddlebags. He shook it in his fist. "Damn thing's empty—I'd
clean forgotten."

Regarding the flask as a man might
regard a beloved old dog who had just turned around and bitten him,
he said, "First of all there are some things I'm hard sworn to.
I can't explain how and why I know Sarga Veys, you must simply accept
that. Perhaps later you will come to know. What I
can
tell
you is that Sarga Veys is closely spun. He's dangerous and
unpredictable, and if you'd sighted that bow at any man's heart
today, chances are he would have killed you."

"I don't understand."

Angus sighed. "Aye, well, you
wouldn't. A clansman would sooner prick his belly with a pitching
fork and soak himself in vinegar for a week rather than sit and talk
of sorcery. You've got Hoggie Dhoone and a whole line of Stone
God-fearing Clan Kings to thank for that. Don't give me that Sevrance
frown, lad. Such is the way things are. What
you
must come
to accept is that whenever you pick up a bow and sight it upon a
man's heart, you're drawing on the old skills. I know it's not what
you want to hear, and I know we could both waste a lot of time
talking ourselves soft around the subject, but for now just listen to
what your old uncle says." Angus' copper eyes twinkled like
newly struck pennies: He seemed to be fully recovered from the blow
of the empty rabbit flask.

"The most important thing you'll
ever learn about sorcery is this: Entering a man's body to cause harm
is the most dangerous thing
a
sorcerer can do. Our bodies
work to preserve us in a thousand different ways. The pain of
touching hot coals will cause a child to snap back her hand, fear
will make a man move faster, fight harder, and cold will make him
shiver to warm his blood. If we sicken with lung fever, something
within us battles the disease, and if we are fed tainted food, our
livers work to rid us of the badness. There's a natural instinct in
all of us to fight anything that threatens our survival. And when
sorcery enters our body, it meets that instinct full on."

Angus leaned over toward Ash and tucked
the elk coat close around her chin. "Sorcery is an invasion of
the worst kind. It's unnatural in every way, and a body will fight it
tooth and nail. Nothing can prepare a sorcerer for the sheer force of
a person's will. It can sever the thread of a drawing within seconds,
sending it snapping back like a whiplash of red fire.

"I saw the face burned from a man
once, a sorcerer who thought himself cleverer than most. We were
walking together in the Sluice—an old section of Trance Vor
that we were both arrogant enough to think we'd be safe in despite
the world of rumors that surrounds it—when a young sharper
lightened me of my purse. I was for running the lad down, but Brenn
would have none of it. Drew sorcery then and there on the street.
Whether he had a mind to kill the lad, slow him, or simply force him
to drop the purse, I canna say. It didn't really matter in the end.
Whatever he did it wasn't quick enough, and the young sharper's will
broke the drawing. Sent it back to Brenn tenfold."

Angus closed his eyes. "It was a
long night. Brenn's face and chest were burned black.
Black
.
… It was all I could do to end his pain." Angus breathed
softly for a while, then opened his eyes and looked at Raif. "That's
one of the reasons I wouldn't let you target the sept."

"But I've targeted men before now
without being harmed."

"That's part of your gift. What
you do happens in less than an instant. Your mind enters another's
body, joins with the heart, then leaves within an eyeblink. You don't
damage or interfere with the heart in any way, you
mark
it.
It all happens so fast that the victim doesn't have chance to
respond. And even if they did, your arrow hits them a second later
and then they're dead.

"You use sorcery as your
accomplice
, not your weapon. It's a subtle difference at
best, but that, and the sheer speed of what you do, saves you from
any backlash."

Raif tilted his head back and looked up
through the clouds to the stars. His heart was beating rapidly in his
chest. What Angus had said disturbed him deeply; he'd described
exactly what happened when Raif drew his bow, right down to marking
the heart. "How do you know so much?" he asked.

"I know a man with nearly the same
gift as yours—

"Mors Stormyielder. The Sull."

If Angus was surprised at Raif's guess,
he did not show it, merely ran a hand over the rough stubble on his
jaw. "Aye. He's the one. Can kill any animal he sets his sights
on."

"And it's the same for him as
well?"

Angus nodded. "Close enough.
Animals have wills to survive just as you and I do. They cannot be
interfered with lightly. Mors knows that. I never knew him to spend a
moment longer than necessary in any beast."

"Yet he couldn't target people?"

"No." Angus looked at Raif
only an instant before looking away.

Raif waited, but the silence between
them only deepened, and Raif guessed he had touched upon yet another
subject that Angus had no liking for. Having little liking for it
himself, Raif let it go. Perhaps his uncle was right: Some things
were no better for the knowing.

Shifting himself against Ash's body, he
said, "I still don't understand what this has to do with Sarga
Veys. If I can target people as quickly as you say, where's the
danger?"

Angus seemed relieved at the question.
During the silence he had taken to looking longingly at the empty
flask. "It's simple. You should never set your sights on
any
sorcerer. Ever. They'll know the moment you enter them, and if
they're quick enough and clever enough, they'll send your sorcery
back home with a vengeance. It doesn't matter that what you do is
little more than a sighting, a bowman taking aim on his target. The
act of
severing
is where the power comes from. By severing
the thread between you, a sorcerer can take a small insignificant
drawing and whiplash it into a force."

Angus still wasn't finished. Now that
he had decided to speak, he seemed determined to say the worst and
have done with it. "From the night we left Spire Vanis I knew we
were being tracked by a magic user, yet until I saw Sarga Veys on the
ridge I couldn't be sure who it was. If it had been another man, I
might not have taken the bow from you. As long as you'd targeted the
other sept members, chances are you would have been safe. But Sarga
Veys isn't like most sorcerers. Sorcery lives within him like the
future lives within prophets and hell lives within the insane. He can
do things that no one else can, clever things, subtle things, things
that people say canna be done. As soon as he realized you had a man's
heart in your sights, he could have slid his power in beside yours
and sent your drawing snapping back like hellfire."

Angus showed his teeth. "And such
a small thing like that, a little snapping motion, wouldn't even
weary him to the point where he needed a ghostmeal."

Raif held his body still, determined to
show Angus nothing of the fear that lived within him. Suddenly he
longed for Drey and Effie and clan. "If Veys has so much power,
why didn't he strike sooner, from afar?"

"Sarga Veys knows his limits. More
than likely he was saving his strength for when he caught up with us,
in case you used your trick with the bow, or Ash did something that
sent everyone running. No matter what happened, he would have left
the killing and capture to the sept. Sorcery is useful in many
ways—you heard what happened on the lake, how he pushed the
mist aside so the Knife could follow Ash—but if you've a mind
to kill someone, you're safer using an arrow or a sword."

Several things struck Raif about what
Angus had just said, and he was silent for a while as he thought.
Or
Ash did something that sent everyone running
. The words had been
spoken lightly enough, but the idea behind them was hard to
comprehend. What could Ash do that would make a full sept, half a
dozen dogs, and a sorcerer run away? Raif pressed Ash's body against
his. She was breathing steadily, no longer shivering, relaxed in a
deep dreamless sleep. Penthero Iss' almost-daughter. As soon as she
had told him that, he had assumed they were being hunted because the
Surlord of Spire Vanis wanted his daughter back. Now it seemed there
was more.

Raif glanced at his uncle. With Angus
there was always more.

Then there was the other thing that
struck Raif. Twice now Angus had said that sorcery was no good for
killing. Yet he, Raif Sevrance, could kill with it. Oh, Angus would
say that the arrow killed, not the drawing. But Angus was wrong.
Vaingate had proven that. At some point while he'd stood shooting men
through the grating, Raif had realized that as soon as a heart was
within his sights the man whom it beat for was as good as dead. The
arrow was just the medium, like wine carrying poison; the
act
of killing had already been made.

So what did that make him? Raif shook
his head slowly, forbidding the answer to eome to him. Inigar Stoop
knew; perhaps even Angus knew: It was better left at that.

Angus touched Raif's shoulder. "You
should get some rest. I'll be waking you at dawn."

Raif nodded. Suddenly he wanted very
much to sleep.

"I canna tell you what business
brought me to Spire Vanis," Angus said, adjusting the elk coat
around Raif and Ash so it let in no drafts. "That city is alive
with secrets, it was built on them, and you shouldna blame your old
uncle for holding a few of them back."

"And Ille Glaive?" Raif
asked, barely able to keep his eyes open.

"Aye. The City of Tears. A man
lives there whom I must visit. He's a tower-trained scholar and as
stingy as a goat, but he does have a talent for finding truths. I
remember once when I was coursing for gray foxes along the
Chaddiway…"

Raif drifted into sleep. Perfect
darkness folded around him, creating a secure place where no dreams
or thoughts could enter. Time passed. Sounds began to niggle at the
back of his mind, and he turned restlessly from them. Still they
pursued him, louder now, dream voices, begging for something he did
not have and could not give. Irritated, he turned from them once
more. Couldn't they see that he slept? At last they went, leaving him
to a deep stupor that lasted through the night.

When he awoke at first light it was
pain, not voices, that stirred him. He was lying on his stomach, and
something cold and sharp pressed against his chest. Thinking it was a
stone, he reached beneath himself to push it away. As soon as his
fingers touched the surface of the object, he knew it was his lore.
Ash
…

His eyes shot open and his hand reached
upward, but already he knew it was too late. She was cold,
motionless, lost to the world of voices.

He called Angus, and together they
tried to wake her, but her eyes would not open and her body lay heavy
and unresponsive, and finally Angus lifted her onto the bay, strapped
her against his back, and set
a
grim pace for Ille Glaive.

Frostbite

Sarga Veys opened his eyes. Unlike
other men who needed time to come around, put the dreamworld behind
them and recall the day ahead, Sarga Veys knew all instantly the
moment he awoke. He never dreamed. That was one human weakness he was
free from.

The timbers above him were black and
furry with mold, and the entire ceiling bowed under the weight of
accumulated snow. The trout guddler's cabin had not been lived in for
at least two seasons, yet the stench of fish and old men remained.
Ancient oilcloths, now brittle and dusty, hung from the walls along
with snowshoes, rotten nets, and racks for drying fish. The oak floor
was crusted with salt. In the far corner, hiding behind cords of
rotten firewood and split crates, lay a small basswood shrine to the
Maker. Sarga Veys' lip curled to see it. Fishermen, whether they
manned trawlers on the Wrecking Sea or sat upon a lakeshore fishing
with their hands, were always superstitious about God.

Gathering his strength to him, Sarga
Veys raised his shoulders from the floor. Naked beneath the buckskins
he had found folded in a pile near the saltpit, his entire body
shuddered and worked against him as he moved. Sour liquid rose in his
gullet, and he fought it by forcing his lips against his teeth. He
would not vomit. Such foulness would not pass from his stomach to his
mouth.