Chapter 63 White Mare

Chapter 63 White Mare

RHYDIAN

The white mare had arrived through the front gates at dawn, her grey flanks rubbed down with sweet oils and silver ribbons braided into her mane. The little brass bells tied around her harness kept clicking together every time she shifted her weight on the cobbles. Below my window, the lower garrison boys had been polishing tack that was already clean since the first bell sounded, their brushes making a dry scraping sound while Bram walked past the stables with his fingers hooked into his ceremonial belt.
The blessing ceremony was older than Ironfang itself, older than the five southern septs that currently sent their tribute-grain to our vaults. A pregnant Luna was meant to ride the mare once around the inner perimeter while the guardsmen lined the wall to witness the bloodline. Afterwards, Alpha Bram would speak the winter names over the child, the priestesses would dump the hyssop water over the mare's hocks, and the clerk would register the birth-date in the iron-bound ledger. It was the sort of custom my father used whenever he needed the council to see who held the high seat.
I was supposed to stand by the well-stone with Vessa. I was supposed to have the red wool mantle ready to drop over her shoulders. Instead, I sat at the small table in the eastern wing, my thumb tracking the grease-lines on the kitchen inventory.
"Aren't you meant to be down by the chapel, Rhydian?" Daven asked from the landing. He was leaning his shoulder against the oak frame, his thumb digging into a loose seam on his leather jerkin. "The priestesses started the first chant twenty minutes ago."
"Then the mare is already past the gatehouse," I said, without lifting my chin from my collar. I dipped the quill into the horn, the dark ink catching a hair from the tip before I could finish the tally mark for the tallow-crates.
Daven let his heels drop against the stone floor, his boots making a heavy thud in the quiet corridor. "I don't think being late works when you’ve left your formal coat on the peg behind the door. Your father sent three runners up the lane before the midday bells. I watched you ignore the last one while he was still standing by the well-stone."
"The iron tools from the lower forge are light this season," I said, closing the cover until the leather boards slapped together. "The smith needs to re-temper the spade-heads before the ground goes hard, or the men will be digging the southern ditch with their fingers."
Daven rubbed his jaw with his palm, his whiskers making a small rasping sound against his skin. "One day, cousin, I want to have enough confidence to tell the Alpha that I’m busy staring at a lime-washed wall while my mate’s blessing is happening in the courtyard."
"You have enough confidence," I said, standing up from the bench. I pulled the grey wool wrap around my neck, the wool catching on the silver stud of my collar. "Daven, if the runners come back before the noon meal is served, tell them I’m checking the stores behind the south gatehouse."
The market beyond the lower ditch was crowded with the Tuesday pork-carts, the air smelling of salted herrings and wet straw that had begun to rot in the gutters. The noise usually made my wolf twitch under my ribs, but today my skin felt different—thick, like the heavy leather coat I used during the winter mountain watches. Nobody paid attention to a man in a plain grey wrap.
The wood-turner’s shed sat behind the hide-vats, where the willow shavings lay two inches deep on the floor. I stood by the rack until the old man looked up from his lathe, his spectacles slipping down his nose as his thumb wiped a smudge of oil from his adze.
"My lord," the carpenter said, his fingers tightening around the handle of his tool. "The cradle isn't finished for the mill-house yet. The child isn't arriving until the snow leaves the valley."
"I want the ash-cradle under the beam, Nathan," I said, pointing my finger at the plain willow box near his wood-pile. "The one with the square header and the short rockers. I want it carried up to the eastern courtyard before the kitchen boys bring the wood for the evening meal."
He looked at the cradle, then at the two silver pieces I dropped onto the bench, his mouth flattening into his cheek before he took the coins. "The servants can carry it by the side-lane, Rhydian. But your father’s guards are still at the well."
By midday, the three boys from the lower garrison were carrying enough items to fill the passage outside my door. I had purchased three small wool blankets, dark blue and rough enough to smell of the sheep-grease, a small rocking chair with an uneven willow leg, and a handful of tiny linen shirts that looked smaller than my palm. The child in Ana’s belly was currently no larger than an elderberry seed, but my fingers wouldn't leave the merchant's table until the bundle was wrapped in canvas.
I was turning a small wooden horse between my palms when the shadow of the gatehouse wall fell over my shoulder.
"Rhydian," Bram said.
My father stood in the middle of the market path, his ceremonial coat still buckled tightly over his ribs, the silver thread catching the bright midday sun. His expression was pleasant—the tone he used when he was about to cross a name out of the tax-book. His gaze moved slow over the servants, his eye lingering on the ash-header of the cradle and the bundle of blue wool under the boy's arm.
"I see you found something more urgent than the chapel service," my father said, his hands folding behind his back as he stepped closer to the cart-wheels. "The council has just finished the entry, son. Vessa’s child is registered as the first heir of Ironfang."
"The council records whatever the clerks write down before the winter count is closed," I said. My hand stayed inside my pouch, my fingers closing around the cold iron of my knife-hilt until the metal bit into my palm. "The names can change before the harvest-tally is brought to the high table."
Bram’s smile didn't leave his face, but his eyes went thin, the skin around his jaw tightening until his beard looked grey against his collar. "Men have ruined their houses over less than an eastern-wing kirtle, Rhydian. You should look at the gatehouse wall before you change the lock on your door."
He turned before I could give him another word, his guardsmen moving into the crowd behind his red mantle until the bells from the high tower drowned out the noise of the market-stalls. My wolf bared its teeth against my throat, the blood in my ears running hot and fast as I watched his boots leave the lane.
By the evening prayer, the small room in the eastern wing looked absurd. The ash-cradle occupied the space between the wardrobe and the washstand, its rockers catching on the edge of the wool rug every time the wind blew through the lattice. The rocking chair sat by the hearth, three small linen shirts were laid out across my sewing table, and the wolf-mobile I had taken from the toy-maker hung crooked from the center beam, one wooden leg dangling lower than the others.
The latch clicked, and Ana stepped through the door, her apron still grey with the dust from the laundry-tubs. She stopped three inches into the room, her hand staying on the iron handle while her mouth opened slightly.
"Hello, Ana," I said, adjusting the string of the mobile until the wooden wolf swung sideways against the rafter.
"What is all this, Rhydian?" she asked, her boots staying on the edge of the threshold as she looked at the blankets. "The child isn't even showing through the linen of my stays. You bought a rocking chair."
"The wood was cheap," I said, walking over to the washstand where the silver comb was sitting. I took both of her hands, her fingers still smelling of the lard-soap Sena had used for the morning wash. "They poured the wine over Vessa's shoes today, Ana. I didn't drop the mantle."
She looked down at her apron, her breath coming out in a small, shaky line that caught in her teeth before she could turn it into a sentence. "The entire compound was at the well-stone. Sena said your father looked for your coat twice before the priest cut the mare."
"The only celebration that belongs to this house is in this corner," I said, lifting her right hand and pressing it flat against the wool of my vest, right where the pulse was jumping hard against my ribs. "Let them drink the plum wine until their throats go raw. Tomorrow, the turner’s boy is bringing the small mattress for the ash-box."
A real laugh came out of her mouth then, not the low, careful sound she used when the scribes were sitting in the hall, but a full, wet sound that hit me squarely in the chest. She leaned her forehead against my shoulder, her fingers catching the torn gray thread of my collar while her shoulders shook against my leather vest.
My palm moved down her side, finding the flat, hidden curve of her stomach beneath the heavy wool of her skirt. The room smelled of the new cedar-shavings and the tallow from the fresh lamp, and for the first time since the guards came through the gatehouse, the floor beneath my boots felt like solid stone.