They followed the young man around a copse of trees. The village and part of the fields were now out of the line of sight. “We’d made a place in the grass over there,” the young man said, licking his dry lips nervously. “We weren’t looking at the crypts. No reason to pay them any mind.” He paled at the recollection. “We heard something coming through the woods. Making an awful racket. Sticks cracking, leaves rustling. I grabbed a stone and got up, thinking it might be a wolf, or a pack of dogs. But it was my uncle. My dead uncle.”
“How did he look?” Sakwi probed.
“He looked dead!” The young man’s voice was close to panic.
“Did he recognize you?”
The young man calmed enough to think for a moment. “I don’t think so. Mind, we got out of there quickly! I didn’t stick around to ask questions. But he looked blank, dazed. And he moved oddly, stiffly. Like one of those puppets on strings that the traveling bards had at the inn one time. Only there warn’t no strings, and no puppet master.”
“Not one you could see,” Sakwi murmured. The land mage moved away from them and began to walk slowly along the tree line. He was slightly built, and in his brown robes, he blended in among the trees. He stopped for a moment as a violent coughing fit racked his thin body, but he held up a hand to forestall help. “It’s nothing. Nothing,” he protested, and took a wad of herbs from a pouch beneath his belt to put beneath his tongue. In a few moments, the coughing ceased and Sakwi continued walking.
Gabriel and Sior followed him at a distance. “There are footprints here,” Sior said. “They smell of the dead. Many scents. Perhaps a dozen.”
“Not fresh dead,” Gabriel added. “There’s more than scent here. There’re bits of flesh and grave clothes in the grass and on the twigs. If they’d arisen as vayash moru, that would not be so.” A note of relief was in his voice. “No, vayash moru didn’t do this. If the old dead had really been brought across, they would have risen within the first few nights after their burial. And they wouldn’t rise in a group. That’s not our way.”
Sakwi continued his walk toward the crypt in silence. Jonmarc, Synten, and the young man followed. Even at a distance, Jonmarc could see that the crypt had been sealed.
“You closed the crypt?” he asked.
Synten nodded. “When he rushed in babbling like an idiot,” he said with a nod toward his son, “I had to go. My wife begged me to stay home; it was growing dark. But if Midri really had risen from his tomb, well, I needed to see for myself. So I brought out my neighbors, and we took our torches and scythes. There wasn’t anyone in sight when we got here, but the crypt was open. That’s why we thought someone had stolen the bodies. I figured my son just saw them being carried off and lost his head.”
“I need to enter the crypt.” Sakwi’s voice startled them. The land mage stood near the crypt door, running his hands along the entrance without touching the stone. “I want to see how it was disturbed.”
Gabriel and Sior moved the heavy door easily, using their preternatural strength. The door was as large and thick as Synten had said, and Jonmarc had no doubt that two men would struggle against its weight unless they were quite strong. Jonmarc and Gabriel ventured in first. Having a torch in an unfamiliar crypt made Jonmarc just slightly more comfortable; in the unlikely event that the tomb robbers had been vayash moru, the torch would deter an attack. And just in case anything still lurked within the tomb, Gabriel’s vayash moru reflexes were a good defense.
As Synten said, the first room of the crypt was empty. Bits of torn shroud littered the floor. While the entrance to the crypt was made of cut and fitted stones, it was clearly designed to fit the entrance of a natural cave. Flat spaces had been carved into the rock, wide enough to lay a body. The niches were empty, but along the ground, the tokens left behind by grieving loved ones remained. Clay pots, strings of beads, homemade toys, or well-worn hunting gear lay undisturbed, although the bodies of the people for whom the gifts had been meant were gone.
“Look there,” Sakwi said quietly, pointing. Crudely drawn onto the walls of the crypt were the same runes they had seen at the inn.
“Well, that makes it pretty certain that either the Black Robes from the inn were here, or their friends were,” Jonmarc said.
They moved through the first room and into the next. The crypt smelled of death and moldering cloth, but there was a cold air that told Jonmarc that the passageway eventually led into caves below. “How large is this crypt?”
“It’s very old,” the farmer replied. “My family has worked this land for five generations, and all our dead are buried here. The same is true of my neighbors, who share the crypt. No one goes into the lowest levels; they were filled with bodies long ago. But my father told me once that there are thirty-two rooms. Eight faces of the Sacred Lady, times four for the Light Aspects. A good number to settle the dead.”
“Do the caves go beyond the crypt?”
Synten frowned. “I haven’t explored them, but I’ve heard it said that when the crypt was made, the men blocked up the back to keep out the rats and scavengers.”
Gabriel raised his face to the stirring of cold air. “The passage is no longer blocked.” He vanished before anyone saw him move, and returned a few moments later. “The tomb is empty. There are runes like these all along the passageways. I found where stones once blocked off the rest of the caves. They’ve been removed.”
“And the grave offerings? Are they gone, too?”
Gabriel shook his head. “Everything else is in its place. In the lower levels, where Synten says no one has gone in years, there were fresh footsteps in the dust. They led back into the caves, beyond where it was blocked.”
“So the dead that I saw were only part of it?” Synten’s son was wide-eyed, and his voice cracked with terror. “You mean that the rest are wandering around somewhere, down in the caves?”
“My guess is that whatever animated them drew them to it along the easiest route. The newly dead close to the door came out that way, and the older dead went toward the back.” Sakwi looked thoughtful. “Or perhaps, they were all meant to go to the caves, and those in the front didn’t respond properly.” He looked up at the others. “It would take a powerful blood mage to move so many bodies, but remember, they’re puppets, not capable of thought.”
“They’re still dead and moving. That makes them a problem.” Jonmarc’s jaw clenched. “What I want to know is, why? Why did the Black Robes want the bodies? From what you say, they wouldn’t be easy to use in battle. If they can’t think for themselves and they can’t move without magic, then someone has to move them, right? It would take a lot of mages—and a lot of magic—to operate that many ‘puppets’ in any kind of battle, and I can’t imagine they’d move with any skill.”
“They wouldn’t need skill if terror would do,” Gabriel replied quietly. “Soldiers are leery to strike down the bodies of their kin. And while you’ve become somewhat accustomed to the dead and the undead, many mortals are not so calm about such things.”
Skilled or not, dozens of puppet-dead would create chaos on a battlefield, Jonmarc knew. They would also spark panicked riots in any city. “I don’t get it,” Jonmarc said, shaking his head. “This seems big for the Black Robes that we’ve fought. Until now, they’ve taken people, vayash moru, and vyrkin for the blood they need for their magic. They’ve disturbed the barrows, but that made sense if they were trying to draw on old magic. But these dead aren’t special. They weren’t mages. They didn’t have any magic. What do they gain from stealing the bodies? And why go to the trouble to use magic to make them walk? Why not just tear down the rocks at the back of the caves and carry them out?”
Sakwi met his eyes. “Find out who gave the Black Robes their gold, and you might find your answers.”
The ride back to Dark Haven went by quickly. The night was cool, and a nip in the air warned that colder weather would come soon. The exchange in the village was troubling, and Jonmarc knew that, come daylight, he would be bac
k at the crypts with as many mages as he could find, hoping to track either the missing dead or the blood mages who troubled their rest. But even the vayash moru counseled caution in the darkness, and Jonmarc wasn’t of a mind to argue.
“Skrivven for your thoughts,” Sakwi said from beside him.
Jonmarc smiled. “Looking forward to a good Moon Feast dinner, to tell you the truth. Carina put Carroway in charge this year, and so I won’t be surprised if we have a celebration worthy of the palace.”
Sakwi chuckled. “It would be nice to end the evening on a happier note. Did you know that Carina asked me in to have a look at Carroway’s hand? It’s much improved; perhaps Macaria can persuade him to play tonight.”
“He’s lucky. I’ve seen men stabbed through the hand before, and most of them never got back enough movement to play an instrument. Some of them were lucky to hold a knife or make a fist.”
Sakwi shrugged. “While most people would say it was worth it to save the heir to the Margolan throne at any cost, it would be a great shame to lose so fine a bard as Carroway. Even when you were all outlaws, he gave the best performances I’ve ever seen.”
Jonmarc chuckled. “And more than once, he earned the coin to keep us fed and get us a place to sleep when we were trying to stay out of Jared’s dungeon. I won’t argue with you—he’s talented, and it would be nice to see him get patched back up.”
“Of course, a good meal never hurts. Fresh bread, candied squash, baked early apples,” Sakwi mused. “Corn and roasted chicken and a blueberry cobbler if we’re lucky.” He sighed, smiling. “Ah yes, it’s good to be visiting a manor on a feast day,” he said with a grin.
“You’re out of luck if you were hoping to see the same kind of spectacle they put on in Principality City,” Jonmarc replied. “No burning cornstalk men in Dark Haven.”
“Why not?”
“Because in other times, when the vayash moru weren’t so well received, such burnings usually involved one of our number, staked through the heart and wrapped with dry leaves and branches and set to burning.” Gabriel had ridden up alongside them, and the look in his eyes gave Jonmarc to guess that the other had seen such things done.
“You mean when Shanthadura was worshipped.”
Gabriel nodded. “The rituals date from then, but whenever the vayash moru become feared or hated, someone remembers the old ways. Worship of the old gods is just an excuse for hatreds long nurtured.”
“Not this time,” Jonmarc said, setting his jaw. “Not if I can help it.”
Dark Haven was alight with candles when they arrived. An offering of cider and freshly baked bread lay within a protective circle drawn in the center of the courtyard around a great oak tree ringed by candles. A silver disk hung suspended from the oak, in honor of Istra, the Dark Lady, the patron Aspect of Dark Haven and the protector of outcasts and vayash moru. The manor house windows glowed, and even at a distance, Jonmarc could hear music and voices. Games of chance and cards were especially favored this holiday, and Jonmarc was certain the festivities had not waited for them to begin. Despite the conversation, his mood lightened. Tomorrow be damned; tonight he would celebrate. He’d spent too long on battlefields to miss an opportunity to enjoy a feast. The next battle would come soon enough.
Carina was waiting for him. She stood, framed in the doorway, watching as Jonmarc and the others gave their horses to servants to tether and headed for the broad stone stairs. Her gown of yellow and orange made the green of her eyes even more striking. Now, her expression was tense.
“I was worried when you were late.”
Jonmarc took her in his arms and kissed the top of her head, brushing back her short, dark hair. “Unexpected complications,” he said. Her swollen belly made it difficult to hold her close, and he let his hand fall protectively to her abdomen. It was a reminder that new responsibilities lay ahead, and an even greater obligation to keep those who depended on him safe from harm.
He took Carina’s hand, forcing himself to smile and pushing the dark thoughts from his mind, at least for a few candlemarks. “I want to see what kind of a celebration you and Carroway have cooked up.”
Carina smiled, although Jonmarc doubted she would forget to ask for details of his trip later, when they could speak in private. “If I didn’t know better, I’d guess that most of the village is here. We did our best to make sure there’s food enough for all of the refugees. Some of the vyrkin brought in additional deer, so there’s plenty of meat and an ample supply of blood for the vayash moru.”
Gabriel and Sakwi followed them into the large dining room. Candles glittered overhead in the large candelabras, and the torches along the walls banished the autumn chill. Carroway and Macaria had gathered the local musicians from the village pub and had obviously been rehearsing new material, because the crowd was clapping, dancing, and cheering. Carroway sat in the second row, unusual for the Margolan court’s master bard, who preferred the visibility of center stage. Then Jonmarc realized that in the second row, no one had a clear view of his left hand, or how nimbly his fingers moved across the lute’s strings. Carroway’s head was bowed in concentration, and his long, dark hair obscured his face, but once, Jonmarc caught a glimpse that told him whatever precision Carroway wrested from his healing hand was not painless.
“It’s the first time Macaria and I have gotten him to perform for more than a small audience in the pub,” Carina whispered, as if she guessed his thoughts. “Although I’ve persuaded him to play for the refugees and he does quite well then. I think he’s more focused on their pain than his own when he plays while I’m healing. He might not have Macaria’s magic, but Lady Bright, he’s still the most talented musician I’ve ever heard.”
“And maybe the first bard to save a kingdom.” Jonmarc chuckled.
“Jonmarc!”
Jonmarc looked up to see Berry hurrying toward him. Although Carina had persuaded Berry to dress for the occasion, she looked more like the daughter of a well-to-do merchant than a princess. Berry’s auburn hair was loose, though it retained a wave from the tight braid that kept it out of her way as she helped Carina with the refugees. Her dress was in shades of orange and brown in keeping with the holiday, but devoid of the gemstones and pearls that glittered in the gowns Jonmarc had seen her wear in the palace.
“Carina made me dress up.” Berry gave a joking pout. “Do you have any idea how often I have to wear gowns like this back home? They’re heavy and hot and the corset hurts when I sit down.”
Carina laughed. “I promised your father I’d keep you in practice. What will he say if we return a hoyden instead of a princess?”
“He knows me. He won’t blame you. He could never keep Mother in hand, either. That was one of the things he loved about her.”
“You look beautiful,” Carina said, reaching out to plump one of Berry’s sleeves.
Berry gave a decidedly unladylike snort. “The only thing this much cloth is good for is hiding my blades.” She shifted, just a bit, and the steel of a throwing knife glittered in the candlelight. The set of knives had been a gift from Carroway, who had taught her how to throw during the long nights the group had spent on the road fleeing Jared’s soldiers.
“Someday, you’re going to make a very interesting queen.” Jonmarc’s voice was serious, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Berry rolled her eyes. “I hope it’s not until I’m old. Old and gray and wrinkled. Maybe Father can be brought across by a vayash moru and live forever, and I’ll never have to suffer through those interminable Council of Nobles meetings.”
“From your lips to the Lady’s ear,” Carina murmured.
Just as quickly, Berry’s mood shifted as the musicians took up a popular dance tune. “That’s the song I asked Carroway to play for me! Got to go.” She blew an exaggerated kiss to Jonmarc and headed back through the crowd to find a place in the circle dance that was just forming. Jonmarc could see Laisren and Lisette among the couples who were dancing, and even Sister Taru h
ad joined the circle. Riqua and many of her vayash moru “family” were present, as were most of Gabriel’s brood and Sior’s pack of vyrkin. Rafe and Uri stood near the far end of the room, deep in conversation. Jonmarc had been as surprised that Uri came to the feast as he was certain that Astasia would not deign to visit. But the fact that four of the Blood Council were in attendance was a positive sign, and Jonmarc was determined not to spoil the evening with concerns that could wait until morning.
Despite the plague, the resurgence of the Black Robes, and the coming winter, spirits seemed high, and Jonmarc let out a long breath, aware of how tight his shoulders were, as if he was anticipating danger. He looked around the room. Carina and Carroway had done an excellent job organizing the feast. One table along the back of the room held an assortment of bread sculptures. There were intricate braids and bread formed in the shape of sheaves of wheat and corn shocks, to thank the Lady for the harvest thus far and petition for good weather to gather the remaining crops. He could smell spiced cider simmering on the hearth, and large dishes offered guests a bounty of fruit compotes, roasted squash, and potatoes, along with a roasted deer and plump baked chickens.
“How is the harvest going?” Gabriel had moved silently to stand beside Jonmarc.
“Very well, considering. Neirin keeps the harvest teams circulating from farm to farm, or to the vineyards, depending on who’s got crops ready to gather. Sior’s brought all the vyrkin who don’t have pups to care for to help, and with the assistance we’ve gotten from your brood and Riqua’s brood, we can harvest day and night, so we might stay a jump ahead of the rains this year.”
Gabriel nodded. “Some good luck is overdue. Between the wars in Margolan, the refugees, and the plague, we don’t need a poor harvest as well.”
“Even Maynard Linton’s caravan pitched in, since they’re effectively stranded here until the plague runs its course. They’ve been helping press the grapes and make mash for the ale, and lending a hand mending fences and fishing nets, that kind of thing.”
The Sworn Page 24
