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Sevrance squint
as he spoke. Ice crystals glittered in the fox fur of his hood, and
pine needles clung like matted hair to his shoulders, arms, and back.
    Raif thought his brother looked tired,
and older than he had ever looked before. Dawn light was showing
yellow on the horizon, and it cast pits of sulfur shadow on his face.
"I checked," Raif said. "No sign of Mace."
    'What about the alder swamp and the
stream?"
    'Swamp's frozen. I walked along the
stream bank. Nothing."
    Drey stripped off his gloves and ran
his bare hands over his face.
    'The current might have carried the
body downstream."
    Raif shook his head. "There's not
enough water to carry a bloated fox from one bend to another, let
alone a full-grown man clear from the camp."
    'It would have been running faster
yesterday at noon."
    Raif took a breath to speak, then
thought better of it. The only time that stream would ever be strong
enough to carry a body was during the second week of spring thaw when
the runoff from the balds and Coastal Ranges was at its height—Drey
knew that. Suddenly uneasy but not sure why, Raif reached out and
touched Drey's sleeve. "Come on. Let's get back to the firepit."
    'Mace Blackhail is out here somewhere,
Raif." Drey pushed a hand through the frozen air. "I
know he's more than likely dead, but what if he isn't? What if he's
wounded and fallen?"
    'There were those tracks—"
    'I don't want to hear about those
tracks again. Is that clear? They could have been left by anyone at
any time. Mace was standing dogwatch—he could have been
anywhere when the raid came. Now either the raiders got to him first
and he's lying frozen in some draw on the floodplain, or he made it
back to the camp, warned the others, and we just haven't found him
yet."
    Raif hung his head. He didn't know how
to reply. How could he tell his brother he had a feeling that no
matter how long and carefully they searched, they would still find no
sign of Mace Blackhail? Shrugging heavily, he decided to say nothing.
He was dead tired, and he didn't want to argue with Drey.
    Drey's face softened a fraction. Frozen
colt grass cracked beneath his feet as he shifted his weight from
left to right. "All right. We'll head back to the firepit. We'll
search wider for Mace come full daylight."
    Too exhausted to hide his relief, Raif
followed Drey back to the tent circle. Wind-twisted hemlocks and
blackstone pines thrashed against the sky like chained beasts.
Somewhere close by, water trickled over loose shale, and far beyond
the horizon a raven screamed at the dawn. Hearing the rough and angry
cry of the bird the clan called Watcher of the Dead, Raif raised his
hand to his throat. With his thick dogskin gloves on he could barely
feel the hard hook of the raven's bill he wore suspended on a length
of retted flax. The raven was his lore, chosen for him at birth by
the clan guide.
    The guide who had given Raif the raven
lore was five years dead now. No one had been more deeply honored in
the clan. He was ancient and he'd stunk of pigs and Raif had hated
him with a vengeance. He had saved the worst possible lore for Tem
Sevrance's second son. No one before or after had ever been given the
raven. Ravens were scavengers, carrion feeders; they could kill, but
they preferred to steal. Raif had seen how they followed a lone wolf
for days, hoping to snatch a meal from an opened carcass. Everyone
else in the clan, men and women alike, had fared better with their
lores. Drey had been given a bear claw, like Tem before him. Dagro
Blackhail's lore was an elk stag, Jorry Shank's a river pike, Mallon
Clayhorn's a badger. Shor Gormalin was an eagle, like Raina
Blackhail. As for Dagro's foster son, Mace…
    Raif thought for a moment. What was his
lore? Then it came to him: Mace Blackhail was a wolf.
    The only person in the entire clan who
had a lore stranger than
a
raven was Effie. The guide had
given her nothing but an ear-shaped piece of stone. Raif grew angry
just thinking