A Cavern of Black Ice by J. V. Jones Read Free Book Online Page A

too close as brothers not to
know each other's minds—but Raif could tell he was not pleased.
He'd had plans of his own for the bodies.
    Finally the muscles in Drey's neck
began to work, and after a moment he spoke, his voice hard. "Finish
the circle. I'll load these supplies by the horse posts, then find
what oil and pitch I can."
    A deep band of muscle in Raif's chest
relaxed. His mouth was dry—too dry to speak. So he nodded once
and continued walking. Raif felt Drey's gaze upon his back until the
moment the circle was joined. And he knew with utter certainty that
he had taken something precious from his brother. Drey was eldest. He
should have had first say with the dead.
    Drey Sevrance did what was needed to
start a good fire. He worked thoroughly and tirelessly; chipping and
shredding firewood, stripping nearby trees of their needles to kindle
the bare ground between the tents and the pit, spreading great heaps
of moss around the bodies, and lacing everything with wads of
rendered elk fat and ribbons of oil and pitch. The tent hides he
doused with the hard liquor that was always to be found in Meth
Ganlow's pack.
    Through all the preparations, Raif did
only those things Drey asked of him, nothing more; suggesting
nothing, saying nothing. Giving Drey his due.
    Ravens circled closer as they worked,
their long black wings casting knife shadows on the snow, their harsh
carrion calls a constant reminder to Raif of the thing he wore at his
throat.
Watcher of the Dead
.
    When it was all done and the two
brothers stood outside the guide circle, looking in at the primed
firetrap they had created, Drey took out his flint and striker. The
circle Raif had drawn was not visible to the eye. The powder was fine
and the colt grass thick, and the wind had carried much of it away.
But it was there. Both Raif and Drey knew it was there. A guide
circle carried all the power of the guide-stone it had been drawn
with. It was Heart of Clan, here, on the frozen tundra of the
badlands. All those within it lay upon hallowed ground.
    Tern had once told Raif that far to the
south in the Soft Lands of flat-roofed cities, grassy plains, and
warm seas, there were others who used guide circles to protect them.
Knights, they were called. And Tern said they burned their circles
into their flesh.
    Raif didn't know about that, but he
knew a clansman would sooner leave the roundhouse without his sword
than without a flask, pouch, antler tine, or horn containing his
measure of powdered guidestone. With a sword, a man could only fight.
Within the hallowed ground of a guide circle, he could speak with the
Stone Gods, ask for deliverance, absolution, or a swift and merciful
death.
    A wolf howled in the distance, and as
if its call had woken him from a trance, Drey pushed back his hood
and stripped off his gloves. Raif did the same. All was still and
quiet. The wind had died, the ravens landed, the wolf silent, perhaps
scenting prey. Neither brother spoke. Words had never been the
Sevrances' way.
    Drey struck the flint. The kindling
caught, flaring fiercely in Drey's hand. Drey stepped forward, knelt
on one knee, and lit the run of alcohol-laced moss he had laid.
    Raif forced himself to watch. It was
hard, but he was clan, and his chief and his father lay here, and he
would not look away. Flames raced toward Tem Sevrance, eager yellow
fingers, sharp red claws. Hellfire. And it would eat him as surely as
any beast.
    Tem…
    Suddenly Raif could think of nothing
but stamping the blaze out. He stepped forward, but even as he did
so, liquid fire found the first tent, and the primed elkhide burst
into a sheet of flames. Sparks flew upward with a great gasp of
smoke, and a thunderous roar of destruction shook the badlands to its
core. Flames so hot they burned white danced in the rising wind.
Pockets of ground ice melted with animal hisses, and then the stench
of burning men rose from the pyre. Rippling air pushed against Raif's
cheek. His eyes burned,