“And the bone houses will be able to enter the village,” she said. “Which I’m sure will save so many lives.”
Gareth gave a little shrug. “Perhaps the ones you’ve seen outside the forest were stragglers. Either way, it doesn’t matter. We’re leaving,” he said, and the words settled between them. It felt as if the ground had split, and she was gazing at some uncrossable distance. “We’ll give the house to Eynon to settle Uncle’s debts and use any leftover coin to make our way south. There are other small villages, Aderyn. You could apprentice to another gravedigger, if you wanted. And I…” His voice drifted off. His thumb stroked the edge of his accounts ledger.
The longing in his voice—it hurt more than his words. She knew part of him wanted to leave, to have a fresh start somewhere else.
She could not leave. Colbren was as much a part of her as the memories she carried. This house was hers—and she belonged to it, as well. She could not imagine living elsewhere. She could not leave home—not with its carved wooden love spoons made by her father’s hands, nor the places on the walls where their mother had marked her children’s growth, nor the mounds of earth and rock in the graveyard. Her mother was buried there, along with her grandparents. She loved everything about Colbren: the bluebells that grew along the forest floor, the gorse that had to be cut back every spring, and the rocky soil, the neighbors who had known her family for generations, the taste of wild blackberries and sharp river water.
To leave, she would have to cut the memories out of her heart—and she imagined her grief spilling forth like blood.
Gareth must have read some of the panic in her face, for he said, “Ryn, I understand you want to stay here. But we can’t. And I don’t understand why you’re so attached when you’re never at home. You’re always at the graveyard or the forest, or in the village—”
“Trying to make a living!” She threw up her hands. “Trying to make enough coin so we don’t have to abandon this place. Not that you care. You want to leave, don’t you? Because you don’t care about this place. You’ve never cared—”
“I care about our family now,” said Gareth, “not about preserving what was. There’s a difference, not that you’re willing to see it.”
Ryn turned on her heel and began to walk out of the kitchen.
“Oh yes, go to the forest,” said Gareth bitterly. “Much better than talking things out with your family.”
A muscle in her jaw twitched. “I’m going to talk to Eynon, you ass.”
She did not slam the door behind her, but it was a close thing.
Eynon’s home was a place of beauty.
The cantref had long had a noble living within the village, ever since the mine opened. There were rumors that it was an undesirable placement, that the noble sent here was often one in disgrace. Which would explain much about how Eynon treated his neighbors, Ryn thought. Not as people, but as burdens.
Eynon’s manservant answered the door. His face was set in lines of arrogant indolence, as if being Eynon’s servant gave him some sort of status.
“What is it, Aderyn?” he asked.
She considered all sorts of rude answers, then decided not to test her luck. “I need to speak to Eynon.”
“He’s not here.”
Ryn crossed her arms. “Where is he, then?”
He did not answer, not at first. It was that hesitation that gave her certainty. He was constructing a lie. She pushed past him, her shoulder jostling his as she walked into the house. His surprise slowed his steps, so that by the time he caught up, she was already in the sitting room.
Eynon was in a chair, a cup of tea beside him and a book in his lap. He looked like a spider sitting at the center of its web. His clothes had neat, even stitches and his hair was bound at the nape of his neck.
His gaze slid up from his book and came to rest on her. “Aderyn,” he said. “What can I do for you?” He exhaled slowly. “Are you here to plead your case? Because as much as it pains me to do this, I must have repayment from your uncle.”
She forced her face to stillness. “He is not here, sir.”
“I know.” He spoke as one did to a child, and it rankled her. “Which is why I must have your house. And it isn’t right, three children living alone like that. You should have gone to one of the workhouses in the city once it was clear your uncle had abandoned you. And your younger sister would be better served in an orphanage. At least then she wouldn’t look half-starved and ragged.”
He did not abandon us. The words rose to her lips, but she bit them down. He might as well have. Uncle had been a gambler and a drunk, too fond of his own pleasures to give them up for his family’s sake.
“I can pay off Uncle’s debts,” she said.
He leaned back in his chair, a faint smile on his mouth. He gestured to the table beside him with a roll of his wrist. “You can leave the coin there.”
Ryn did not move. Nor did Eynon; the smile remained fixed on his mouth.
“You don’t have the coin, do you?” he said. He shook his head with the air of a benevolent ruler bestowing wisdom upon an unruly citizen. “Let me tell you something, Aderyn. Empty promises—and empty threats—hold little value.”
“They’re not empty,” she said. “The newcomer—Ellis. He’s hired me as a guide. Once he’s paid me, you’ll have your coin.”
His smile froze in place. “He has that kind of coin?”
“Yes.” Ryn shrugged. “He said he’s from Caer Aberhen.”
The name of the prince’s fortress seemed to make Eynon’s jaw flex. “And what is his surname?”
“He didn’t give one.” Ryn shrugged. “What does it matter?”
“It matters,” Eynon said, his smile iced over, “because some of us do have business with the prince. If he is keeping wards, they should be welcomed.”
If anyone had offered to welcome her with that tone of voice, Ryn would have run the other way. But the politics of the nobles mattered little to her. “I can pay you—but it will take a little time.”
Eynon hesitated—and for a moment, Ryn’s heart leapt into her throat. Maybe, just maybe, this would work.
Then he shook his head. “No, no. I need the coin—as does the rest of the village. The winter promises to be a harsh one, which is why I’m seeing to stocking the granaries. It is why the iron fence must be sold—and why I shall call in the debts I’m owed. It is for the good of the village, you see.”
For a moment, Ryn felt unsteady with disappointment. And then it hardened into anger, burning hot as coals low in her belly. He sounded so smug, so confident; it was as if he had blown upon those coals.
They caught fire.
“But not all our coin will go to the granaries, will it?” she said.
The false geniality slid from Eynon’s face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
Ryn looked about the room.
The rugs were brilliant reds and blues—the dyes would have come from far away. His table was polished so brightly it shone, and the teacup was made of delicate porcelain. A tapestry hung from the wall, stitched to give the likeness of a long-dead king.
It was a beautiful room. And it was far more than Eynon should have been able to afford.
“The taxes we pay you,” said Ryn. “They should go to the cantref prince, right? Do they all make it to his coffers? It would be a shame for the prince to find out,” she said. “Perhaps if a ward of his carried word back…”
It was the worst kind of threat—one that held little weight. She didn’t even know if Ellis was truly nobility, or if he were someone’s bastard, or perhaps just a well-dressed tradesman. But then again, Eynon didn’t know, either.
Eynon rose from his chair. His eyes were flinty and his mouth was pressed into a thin line. He stood a head taller than her, and she hated that she had to look up to meet his gaze. “You tread a very dangerous path, Aderyn.” He spoke in a soft voice, so quiet that the servant would not hear. “Take care what rumors you listen to,
my dear girl.”
A headache throbbed behind her jaw, tight muscles pulling at her neck. She tried to steady her breathing, to will herself to calm. Helplessness was something she hated, and it made her want to pick up every expensive trinket in this house and smash it against a wall until Eynon understood what loss felt like.
“At the very least,” she said, “leave the iron fence be.”
“Or what?” He let out an incredulous laugh. “You’ll drop a dead body on my doorstep?”
She closed her eyes. He would not listen to her, but she spoke the words regardless.
“No,” she said. “I won’t have to. Any dead that appear in the village will come of their own accord.”
Several emotions chased themselves across Eynon’s thin face: surprise, fear, and then anger. As if the threat came from her, not from the mountains. And as if he might deal with it by silencing a single young woman.
She turned and strode from the house.
CHAPTER 8
FOR ELLIS, MEALTIMES were time for work.
One of the women who’d raised him, a cook, had long ago despaired of keeping him from his sketches. No matter how often he blotted a page with porridge or cheese, he kept working—fingers moving over the parchment, constructing landscapes of nothing but lines and measurements.
He ate an early supper in the Red Mare, one hand holding a spoon and the other cradling paper-wrapped lead. His sketches of Colbren were coming together; if his map was circulated, at least travelers wouldn’t find themselves sleeping under crooked canvas in the forest. He had walked the village twice, charting buildings and measuring distances with footsteps. Now he could have walked the village blindfolded, so long as he knew his starting point.
Perhaps this was what had drawn him to maps in the first place: He liked seeing whorls of ink and reading landscapes. Maps held no secrets, no intricacies that he could not parse. He could know a place far better than he could know a person.
The tavern bustled around him, but he paid it little mind.
The mutton stew had the tang of rosemary and mint, and he ate as he worked, placing the final measurements on the town’s outskirts.
A cup thudded down before him. Ellis glanced up, expecting to see Enid trying to coax him into eating more, but a man stood before him. He had a rather pinched expression, and he gazed at Ellis as if the young man were a smudge on the side of his boot.
His clothes were finely wrought and his boots were in fact untouched by mud. Only one man would wear such clothing.
“Master Eynon,” Ellis said, with a polite bow of his head. He knew of the lord; he’d been made to memorize all of the cantref’s nobility when he was twelve. But Eynon must have despised court or simply declined invitations to Caer Aberhen, because this was the first time Ellis had met him.
Eynon sat down across from him without responding. Ellis felt his brows draw together; it was a minor slip of courtesy, to join without being asked.
“Who are you?” said Eynon. There was a frosty chill to his words.
Ellis’s spoon stilled halfway to his mouth. A chunk of mutton slipped back into the tureen. “Ellis of Caer Aberhen. In such a small village, I had assumed my presence was well known.”
Eynon’s eyes swept over him. “There are rumors. My servants have a tendency to talk when they think I can’t hear them. They spoke of a noble.”
Ellis tapped a finger against his parchment. “I’m a mapmaker.”
Eynon made a sound low in his throat. He was too well-mannered to snort, but it was a close thing. “Don’t be coy. The prince sent you,” he said. “To report on me.”
Ellis’s smile was not kind. Nor was the laugh he uttered. “I’ve been called many things,” he said lightly. “A stranger, an outcast, a cripple, and a nuisance—but I’ve never been accused of being a spy before. Tell me, what gave it away? That I’ve told everyone my name or that I’m walking about in broad daylight?”
Color spilled across Eynon’s face. “Half a name,” he said in a low voice. “I notice you’ve given no one your family name.”
There were some pains so old they were almost a comfort. “No,” said Ellis, “I have not.”
“Is there a reason?”
“My lord,” said Ellis. He made sure to keep his voice smooth. “I do not owe you answers. Not when you have interrupted my meal. Now I’d like to get back to my work.”
Eynon’s gaze fell to the sketchbook.
“It is a rather good story,” he said quietly. “Perhaps you trained in mapmaking, perhaps you did not. But I know why an agent of Caer Aberhen has come. Why you have spoken to that damned gravedigger. She would put stories in your head, ones you will bring back to the cantref prince. I know there are those at court who would like to replace me here.”
Ellis’s good manners gave way to irritation. “I can’t see why,” he said. “Those nobles have estates in far better condition.”
Eynon’s mouth went pale and tight. “The mine,” he said, jaw barely moving. “It belongs to me.”
“The mine collapsed long ago,” said Ellis. “Seems a rather fitting metaphor for this place.”
“The mine would be worth more than your head, should it be reopened,” said Eynon coldly. “More than any of these people’s lives. There is a king’s fortune in those mountains, and someday I will reopen them.”
“Then why wait?” He wondered if Eynon would mention the risen dead.
“Because,” said Eynon, “too many yet fear a further collapse. They say that we should never have pushed so deeply into the mountain. And the last group I sent to scout the mine was not successful after one of them vanished and the rest lost their nerve.” His mouth twisted with irritation. “But once the village is hungry enough, I believe there will be… sufficient volunteers to scout the mine again.”
Ellis thought of the run-down homes, the clothing worn thin, and the eagerness with which Ryn had taken his coin. Perhaps Eynon was right—in a few more years, the villagers might be desperate enough to return to a collapsed mine.
“And in the meantime,” Eynon said, very quietly, “I’ll not have spies spreading rumors that I’ve not done my duty for our prince. I know what Aderyn’s been telling you, and I won’t have it.”
Ellis swallowed a curse. Of course he found himself caught up in petty village politics. Because attempting to map the unknown, sneak past the risen dead, and merely survive weren’t enough. Ellis slanted a glare toward the ceiling. “Just for once,” he said, more to himself than to Eynon, “why can’t things be simple?”
Eynon rose from his seat; the chair squeaked against the wooden floor. “Enid!”
The woman appeared as she always did—rosy-cheeked and hair tumbling from its knot. But her smile was a little too rigid, and her hands clasped. “Master Eynon?”
“I believe our guest is ready to leave,” said Eynon, his gaze steady on Ellis. “He won’t be staying the night.”
A flash of panic crossed Enid’s face. Her glance darted between Eynon and Ellis, seemingly torn. If Eynon was the kind of lord Ellis thought he was, then if Enid did not agree, her rent would be raised without so much as a word.
Ellis bit back his anger, held it in his belly. With no family name to protect him, he could not afford anger.
He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, breathing evenly. He stood, picked up his things, and nodded to Enid. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he murmured, and walked past Eynon. He’d gather his things, then be on his way.
It was time to find his guide and leave this place.
CHAPTER 9
THAT EVENING, RYN went out to the forest.
The trees were still damp with yesterday’s rain. It dripped down the trunks of oak trees, sent acorns tumbling to the ground. Ryn began gathering them, scooping up handfuls. It was slow work filling her basket, but she didn’t mind it. There was a peace to be found in the forest, in the shadow of the mountains, where so few people dared to come. She did not have to worry about the mud spatter on
her leggings or her wind-tangled hair.
This was the only place she felt unburdened.
At least until she heard a familiar “Bah.”
Ryn turned and saw the goat standing some distance away. The animal flicked one ear, then bent down to crunch an acorn.
“What are you doing here?” said Ryn. The goat’s only reply was to nudge another acorn. She blinked at Ryn, as if the two were mere acquaintances who had happened upon each other. “You got out of the pen again.”
“Bah.”
Ryn walked forward, took the goat by one horn, and gave a gentle tug. “Come on, you.”
If a goat could look affronted, this one did. “No,” said Ryn. “You’re not going to forage with me. You’ll eat everything.”
“Talking to the goat?”
A new voice made her jump.
Ellis stood a distance away. He looked like the noble he claimed not to be—at least, he was dressed as one. She felt the grime beneath her nails all the more keenly.
“She’s a good listener,” said Ryn. The goat, as if determined to prove her wrong, turned her head away and began nipping at low-hanging leaves. “What are you doing here?”
“It seems I have worn out my welcome in Colbren. The fields might prove a safer place to sleep.” He slid a pack from his shoulder, setting it between his feet. “If you’ve made preparations, could we leave in the morning?”
She frowned. For all that Colbren was small, it had never been unwelcoming. Or at least it had never been unwelcoming to those with coin to spend. “What happened? Did Enid’s chickens get into your room? They won’t hurt you, you know. Just throw them some grain and they’ll leave off.”
He huffed out a breath that was half amusement, half scoff. “Has that happened before?”
“More times than I can count.”
He laughed—and the sound had the resonance of true mirth. Warmth kindled in her chest, and she found herself smiling back, charmed by her ability to charm him.
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