Eventually they crossed the river. An ancient hog-backed bridge spanned the Fleece just west of Clan Camber. The tiny clanhold defended the crossing with a stone and timber redoubt and a system of pulleys and river chains, but for some reason they weren't manned. Later that day Bram ran into a tied Camberman driving a pair of white oxen with a stick. The man had taken one look at Bram's Dhoone-blue cloak and driven his cattle from the road.
After that incident, Bram had considered taking off the fine cloak given to him by his brother Robbie and switching it for his old ratty half-cape. The cloak identified him not only as a Dhoonesman, but also as one of Robbie's elite crew of warriors. Bram didn't want to get into any fights. Still, he had to admit he'd felt a small thrill when the Camberman left the rode to make way for him—such was the reputation of Robbie Dun Dhoone.
In the end Bram had decided to continue wearing the cloak. His reasons were complicated and not all of them were noble. Soon enough he would wear the cream wool of Castlemilk.
He tried not to think of it, and mostly that worked as a strategy. Castlemilk later. Travel in the now. Once several years back, before Bludd had seized the Dhoonehouse, and while Maggis was still chief, a visitor had come to the roundhouse. Maggis spent half a day in conference with the stranger and later walked with him around the clanhold, introducing him to various clansmen and women. Bram was curious about the stranger, but had assumed he would not be introduced—he was twelve at the time and smaller his age and of little consequence to anyone except his mother, Tilda. Yet the stranger had spotted Bram spreading hay for the horses in the stable. The stranger had been talking with the swordmaster Jackdaw Thundy in a manner that suggested they were old and good friends. "Is he one of Cormac's boys?" the stranger had asked Jackdaw, nodding his head toward Bram. "Aye," Jackdaw had replied. "That's Mabb's youngest, Bram. Come over here, boy, and meet the ranger Angus Lok."
Up until then Bram had never heard of such a thing as a ranger, yet the unfamiliar word had caused a flutter in his chest. Angus Lok greeted him soberly man-to-man, and for a wonder he didn't ask any of the questions that Bram normally dreaded: How come you don't look like your brother Rab? Did Bodie Hallax pull you from hammer training, or did you just drop out? Is it true your brothers related to the Dhoone kings? Instead Angus Lok inquired about Bram's mother, asked Bram's opinion on his new sword—drawing it smartly on cue for Bram's inspection—and told Bram he should not neglect his studies; sword and pen was better than sword alone. Bram had been mightily impressed. The meeting had lasted only scant minutes, but it left him with a good feeling that had endured for months. He recalled seeking out Jackdaw Thundy some time later and asking him about the ranger. "Angus is a dying breed," Jackdaw had said. "Circles like a hawk, waits like a spider. Knows the North like its a wheatfield he's planted, and spends so much time in the saddle that it's a wonder he's not got wishbones for legs," It was a curiously vague answer, but Bram hadn't realized that at the time. Instead he was taken with the romance of a man crossing the country on a horse, alone, and watchful as a hawk.
That was how Bram had spent most of those free days after Guy Morloch and Jordie Sarson had left him; riding and being watchful, a hawk and a spider.
He wished he knew more about the histories. Every day he passed lengths of standing wall, broken bits of fortifications, paved roads gone to seed, bumed-out barns, dismantled river dams, ancient way markers, sealed wells, burial mounds. Ruins, all of them. Whenever he spotted something interesting he stopped to inspect it, brushing away moss or snow, dead leaves or cobwebs: whatever had accumulated over time. Occasionally he spied faint signs scribed into the stone, but mostly the surfaces were blank. Markings had been worn away, dissolved by rain and tannins, and scoured by the wind. History had been lost. Who had built the perfectly placed dam on the Fleece? And who had destroyed it?
That was the recurring theme of the ruins, Bram had noticed. Something built, then destroyed. Thinking about it made him restless. Who would know such things? Who could tell him what had happened in the past?
Angus Lok, the ranger. He would know.
Bram had lost a whole day to the ruins he'd found in the north-racing lee of a hill in the pinelands above the Flow. Something circular—a watchtower, granary or small fort—had once stood in the shadows thrown by the hills steep ridges. Something looking north. Scrambling over the shattered remains of cornerstones, footing blocks and lintels, Bram wondered who had erected this here and why. The nearest clanhold was Wellhouse. Its roundhouse was built from traprock. This structure had been built from hard and lustrous blue-stone. Although he looked for identifying markers in the stone, Bram could find nothing to confirm his secret hope. If the structure had been built by the Sull, its ruins were keeping that knowledge to them selves.
That night he made camp against the small section of wall that was still standing. And dreamed of secrets and the Sull.
The next day he and Cabbie arrived at the Easterly Flow. The largest river in the clanholds had swollen above its banks and its waters were murky and swift. To the east Wellhouse maintained a crossing and to the west Dhoone commanded the Cinch, a narrow river gorge between two cliffs that could be strung with ropes to form a bridge. Most people crossed by boat; it was the horses that were a problem. Bram walked the stallion east along the shore, aware as he did so that he was heading away from Castlemilk. The Milkhouse now lay directly south of him. It was difficult to put his heart into finding a crossing. Cabbie was not a horse who took well to water and it was easy to say, He'st not going to swim across so I might as well take the crossing at W'ellhouse. Bram knew it for a lie. At some point during the journey Gbabbie had become his horse, not Guy's, and if forced he would take the crossing for his master.
They wasted a day traveling to Wellhouse and paid a silver coin for the crossing. Bram had avoided the roundhouse and steered clear of Wellmcn but he could not evade their stares. All knew him as a Dhoonesman and all were greedy for news of their sworn clan. The Name Robbie Dun Dhoone was on everyone's lips, spoken in hushed tones, with fear. By now word had spread about Skinner Dhoone's crashing defeat at the Withyhouse. Rumor had it that Robbie Dun Dhoone had lured his fellow clansmen to their deaths. Little did the Wellmen realize that the slight, dark-haired youth who rode through their clanhold at dusk had been the one Robbie had sent to Skinner to set the trap.
Robbie didn't intend for Skinner and his men to die, Bram repeated to himself stubbornly. He just wonted to insure that Skinner didn't steal a march on the Dhoomhouse, so fooled Skinner into attacking Withy instead of Dhoone.
After the crossing at Wellhouse Bram wasted a second dav heading south when he should have turned west The land south of the Flow was old and wild and there were parts that had been lost to clan. Ancient forests of dead and dying trees formed impenetrable masses known as the Ruinwoods. Keep to the trails, that was the prevailing clannish wisdom concerning the Ruinwoods. Bram tried to adhere to it, but sometimes the temptation to explore long-abandoned cabins half-glimpsed through the trees was too much. Curiosity hadn't killed him, but he'd gotten lost, had his right pant leg ripped open by a blackthorn, stepped knee-deep into a sinkhole filled with wood tar and collected enough moose ticks to keep him busy with a handknife through the night. Often he saw deer and sometimes bears. One time Gabbie had shied and Bram couldn't understand why until he spied fresh snagcat tracks in the mud. From the looks of the prints it was a big male. And it was close, because Gabbie had either seen or smelled it.