The Glass Casket

by Templeman, Mccormick

  The men all stared at the scholar, each willing the next to speak. What Henry Rose was suggesting was tantamount to sacrilege, for it was customary to return a man’s possessions to his people without so much as glancing at them. To look on a dead man’s secrets was to invite disaster.

  Henry Rose laughed. “Yes, of course, we’re back here again, aren’t we? Fine. I will do the deed myself behind closed doors, so that none of you will have to risk a thing.”

  Wilhelm sighed, glad that Henry Rose was brave enough to take on the task himself. “Their belongings are in the cellar,” he said.

  “Well,” Henry Rose said, pushing aside his plate. “Please, take me to them.”

  “What? Now?”

  “Yes, now. I don’t see why not,” he said, and then, unable to keep the scorn from his voice, he went on. “In the palace city, we used to divvy up whatever a dead man left behind. It’s a wonder any of us is alive today.”

  Wilhelm led Henry Rose down to the cellar, and Tom bit into his beer bread as he watched them go. Something was surfacing in his mind—an image of the four frozen men on the mountain, their bodies naked, untouched. He looked to Ollen Bittern, who, despite his position as village elder, had said not a word during the meeting.

  “Father Bittern,” Tom said. “Are we certain we’re dealing with a wolf? Might it not be something … something worse?”

  “You speak of forest things, boy?” Ollen Bittern asked, his brow furrowed. “No, goblins are apt to steal a child for their supper, and fairies might bewitch one to drown in Seelie Lake, but this doesn’t sound like their work.”

  Tom shook his head. “I don’t mean goblins or fairies. I mean something worse, something unknown to us.”

  “No, it was a wolf. Of that I am certain.” The old man’s mind seemed somewhere far off, and when he spoke again, he did so slowly, choosing his words with care. “I am an old man who no doubt clings to the old ways, but I do not like the direction this meeting has taken. Five men died up on that mountain today. In my opinion, you men did the right thing by setting them alight. I stand behind you on this. Not a one of you will face punishment. We will take to arms before we let a distant king tell us how to lay out our dead. And yes,” he said, raising his hand as if to stop any questions that might come, “I do consider them our dead. Those men came to our land, and they died on our mountain, and we are responsible for their bodies. Obviously, we weren’t able to perform rites, and so we weren’t able to lay them at the Mouth, but you did the best you could by them, and moreover, you did the best you could by us, by Nag’s End. I’ll not have some … scholar”—he spat the word as if it were poison—“telling good people they’ve done wrong.”

  He looked at the men who sat around him, and they smiled back at their elder, relieved to have someone defend their actions so vociferously. Seeing the admiration in the men’s eyes, the other elders, Paer Jorgen and Draeden Faez, nodded their agreement.

  “I think we three can stand together on this sentiment,” Paer Jorgen concluded, raising a gnarled finger.

  Tom, still unconvinced they were dealing with a wolf, spoke up again. “You say it was an animal born of the Goddess that killed those men, but then why were there no tracks around the bodies?”

  Paer Jorgen narrowed his eyes at Tom. “There had been fresh snow. The tracks would have been covered.”

  “Of course,” Tom said, the words seeming almost to slip from him. “The scavengers.”

  “What’s that?” Paer Jorgen asked, growing increasingly cross.

  “Scavengers,” said Tom, unable to contain himself, for suddenly he understood what had bothered him up on that mountain. “Why was there no evidence of scavengers? If they’d already been up there several days, then why were four of the bodies untouched? And what of the winter rats? What of the snow beetles?”

  The room grew silent, all eyes on Tom.

  Tak spoke up. “Tom’s right. There wasn’t anything. There should have been something, but there wasn’t. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Perhaps the snow provided a barrier,” said Ollen Bittern. “Whatever the reason, we will keep it in mind.”

  Paer Jorgen cleared his throat. “Research will need to be done, of course, and oracles consulted, before we can speak more freely. We will need time.”

  The men agreed, and with that, they clinked their tall mugs and moved on to lighter topics, the meeting officially adjourned. When Henry Rose returned from the cellar, he was met with questioning eyes.

  “Did you find anything, then?” Paer Jorgen asked.

  Henry Rose sucked on his bottom lip.

  “Nothing of interest, no. It’s difficult to say, but as far as I could tell, there is nothing of use to us down there.”

  Paer Jorgen nodded. “It was nice to think that our mountain might conceal a secret treasure trove, but it is, alas, unlikely. A disappointment, yes, but then we are Nag’s Enders. We are born of disappointment.”

  Henry Rose bid Tom farewell and thanked the Parstles for their hospitality before heading out into the night. What Tom did not see, what no man saw, was that inside his winter undercoat, buttoned fast against the wind and snow, sat the soldier’s logbook, pressed like a lover’s secret over the scholar’s trembling heart.

  It wasn’t until the next day that Tom saw Rowan’s enchanting stranger, and when he did, something stirred within him. He was passing through the village square when she caught his eye. Extraordinarily beautiful, she moved with the grace of a spritely fawn, and as she came to perch on the low stone wall that surrounded the village well, Tom felt certain he’d seen her somewhere before—as if she were a girl from a dream, or a story told to him long ago.

  Tom was staring at her, his jaw gone slack, when the girl lifted her face to him. Her gaze now upon him, their eyes locked, each seemingly unable to look away. It was as if he were seeing an old friend for the first time in years.

  Her face was gentle, confused, as she looked at him, and then suddenly the ridiculousness of their staring match was upon them, and they both broke into startled, unrestrained laughter. The intimacy of the moment—the shared intensity followed by the shared foolishness—did something strange to Tom’s heart, and he found himself in thrall to the mysterious creature.

  But then the girl’s cheeks flushed crimson, and lowering her eyes, she turned away.

  “Her name’s Fiona Eira.” A voice at his elbow startled Tom. He turned to see Rowan’s big eyes peering up at him, and he had to smile.

  “She’s breathtaking, isn’t she?” Tom asked, returning his gaze to the girl, who was now running her fingers along the smooth stones that lined the well.

  “She’s my cousin,” Rowan said.

  “Really?”

  “Apparently,” she said, her bluebird eyes squinting up at him through pale lashes.

  Looking at Rowan, Tom found that despite the differences in coloring, he could see a definite family resemblance. Perhaps that was why the girl seemed so familiar.

  “What’s she like?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. My father’s forbidden me to speak to her, but that doesn’t mean I can’t spy on her, does it?”

  “It seems strange of your father to tell you to avoid her. That doesn’t sound like him.”

  Rowan raised her eyebrows. “It’s the whole family. He won’t see them. He’s instructed Emily not to let them in, and I’m supposed to ignore them should I meet them in the square. He thinks they’re after money.”

  “But the girl is your cousin. Surely she can’t bear you any ill will.”

  “Surely not,” said Rowan, watching her cousin, black tendrils of hair framing her luminous face.

  “Then you should speak with her,” Tom said.

  “Yes, Tom. I’m the one who wants to speak with her,” Rowan said, and then she grinned at him with such knowing that he felt a blush rising in his cheek.

  That evening, when Tom returned home to his mother, who was pouring ale for the men of the village, he found
his brother reading in the corner, chestnut hair falling over his dark eyes.

  “Jude,” he said. “Helping out as usual, I see?”

  “I caught your dinner.” Jude grinned. “What else do you want from me? And while we’re doling out criticism here, where have you been?”

  “Out,” Tom said, avoiding eye contact.

  “Taking the air, then?” Jude asked, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. “Just having a walk down to the well? See something you fancied, did you?”

  Tom laughed. “Fine. You’ve got me. I went to the square, and there I happened to see Rowan’s mysterious stranger. She’s quite beyond description.”

  “There’s no need to describe her. I’ve seen her myself. What’s more, I saw you and Rowan staring at her like she was one of those insects you two used to trap in jars.”

  “If you’ve seen her, then you know what I mean,” Tom said, his voice soft, reverent. “A man could hardly look upon such a creature and fail to have his heart stolen.”

  Jude shook his head. “Alas, the slant of her cheek does nothing to move me. Rowan, on the other hand …”

  “You don’t even like Rowan.”

  “That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate her beauty. Don’t tell her I said that, by the way.”

  Tom rolled his eyes. “I’ll ask you please not to speak so of my friend. She’s a proper lady, one not meant for your wandering eye.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Jude smiled and returned to his book.

  Tom turned to see that his mother was looking especially harried, her blond curls hanging limp to her chin. Concerned, he moved to help her.

  “What can I do, Mother?” he asked, and he caught Jude making the motions of being ill.

  “Ah, my boy, you can wipe down the counters, you can,” she said, handing him a rag. “Was your brother giving you grief, then?”

  Tom leaned against the bar. “The family that just moved into the village, have you met them yet?”

  Elsbet raised her eyebrows. “The girl I haven’t met, but I’ve met her mother. I dropped off a basket of scones this morning. The woman was very kind. She said she’d be over to see us as soon as she had a moment, but the glassblower, he couldn’t see fit to come to the door for a simple hello.”

  “He’s a glassblower?” Tom asked as he moved the rag in careful circles atop the oak bar.

  “Mmm.” Tom’s mother nodded. “I’ve heard he’s quite skilled—gifted, even—but what’s that beside some common courtesy? Couldn’t be bothered to say hello, though I could see him sitting right there by the fire. He doesn’t seem to think we’re worth his time. I can tell you one thing, though,” she said, leaning into the counter. “The mother, Lareina’s her name, she’s quite lovely.”

  “She’s the stepmother,” Tom corrected, working his way down the bar.

  “Neither is the girl’s parent, my boy.”

  “Really?” Tom, surprised, set his rag down and sat upon one of the high barstools. “Rowan didn’t say.”

  “Sure,” Elsbet said, brushing the curls from her eyes. “The girl belonged to Rowan’s mother’s brother and his first wife, but that one died when the girl was small—sickness of the blood. And then only last year, he died as well. The glassblower is some distant friend of the family, swooped in to provide and protect, but he seems a rough sort to me. Not sure I’d want the kind of protection he could give.”

  “Mother, you don’t even know them.”

  Elsbet shrugged, and picking up Tom’s rag, she began pushing it along the counter in steady sweeps, going over what Tom had already done. “I know people in general, Tom, and that’s worth more than knowing any one person any day of the week. Now be a love and gather some wood for me, will you? Don’t stray too far into the forest, though. I don’t care what your brother says. There are wolves breeding in those trees.”

  “Mother,” Tom sighed.

  “Get on, now. The stove won’t light itself, child.”

  That evening as Rowan walked home, she kept her eyes on the trees. She trusted her father when he told her that the village beliefs were no more than superstitions, yet she could not deny that there was a magic to the forest—perhaps not goblins and fairies, but it held an otherworldly beauty for her, and even at dusk, she usually found herself taking the path that skirted its bewitching wilds rather than walking through the center of the village. She considered the woods her second home. And while she would never hazard them at night, she and Tom had spent most of their childhood running through the trees and combing the forest floor for insects. In the summers they would swim in Seelie Lake, and resting on its shores, they would gaze up toward Cairn Hill to the slate outcropping of Lover’s Leap—perched as it was above the waters, it was where widows went to weep. But now the villagers were losing their heads over a wolf, the forest declared dangerous even during the day, and Rowan felt anxious and displaced.

  When Rowan reached her home, she could see the candle lamps burning in the window of her father’s study. As she stepped into the foyer, Rowan caught a whiff of a scent that always made her think of her mother. She knew there was no way she actually remembered her mother’s scent—she’d died when Rowan was only hours old—yet sometimes, Rowan could have sworn that she did.

  Rowan knew very little about her mother. Her father, still grief-stricken after sixteen years, refused to discuss her, and if Rowan ever asked any of the villagers about her, they would sweep their eyes away, not wanting to answer, not wanting to make a child pine all the more for a mother she’d never known. Her only knowledge of her mother was through her dreams. She came to Rowan when she was sleeping—of that the girl was certain. In her favorite dream, they were in her mother’s room. The light from the window seemed to sparkle, and her mother moved her shining face close to Rowan’s. In one hand, she held a wooden egg; in the other, a rope woven of pure gold.

  Ah, that’s better, her mother would say, and then she would kiss Rowan on the cheek, her lips soft as butterfly wings. Rowan would always emerge from those dreams feeling as if they were somehow more real than her conscious life.

  Stepping out of the foyer, Rowan tried to put thoughts of her mother from her mind. She moved through the corridor and into the central hall with its high arched ceiling and heavy wooden beams. She was running her fingers along the carved rosewood panels that lined the walls when Emily emerged from the kitchen, spoon in hand, her cheeks splotchy from the heat. The candles in the mounted sconces played upon the girl’s features, illuminating them with bursts of color.

  “Late enough,” Emily said, and scrutinizing Rowan’s dress, she grimaced. “That’s right wrinkled, isn’t it? What have you been doing in that thing?”

  “Nothing,” Rowan answered as Emily’s dog, Pema, bounded up to her. She ran her hands through the dog’s thick black fur and patted her on the head. “That’s a good girl,” she said, her heart warming with just one look from the dog’s watery brown eyes.

  “Well, put it aside for me to work on,” Emily said, already turning to head back to the kitchen, Pema in tow. “And go in and say hello to your father.”

  Rowan gave a soft knock at her father’s study door, and he called that she should enter. He sat at his desk, surrounded by books. Before him was a thick stack of papers.

  “Working on something new?” she asked.

  He set down his pen and smiled at her.

  “I am. I’ve had a new shipment from the duke conservateur. Some really interesting documents coming into the royal library these days. One is a text that was only recently discovered in the hills of Montatrea, where they unearthed that massive trove of ancient texts. It’s fascinating, really.”

  “Fortunately, they have you to translate it for them,” said Rowan, who always took a quiet pride in her father’s expertise.

  He leaned back in his chair and laughed. “Well, it’s not as if they have a choice. There are simply too few men trained in the Midway language these days. It’s a pity.”

  “I can re
ad it too, remember,” she said, grinning.

  “Don’t say I never taught you anything. Have you and Emily had your supper yet?”

  “Not yet, no. I was just about to go and see if she needs help in the kitchen.”

  “I’m sure she’ll appreciate that.”

  “Father,” Rowan said, looking at the shelves that lined the wall, at the endless stacks of books. “Those men who died. What killed them?”

  He fixed his eyes on hers. “A wolf, naturally. But, Rowan, you mustn’t trouble yourself about such things. Fear is the domain of the small-minded. You are to be a scholar, my dear, and scholars do not go around fearing the wind and quivering away at the thought of wolves.”

  Rowan smiled, knowing she was lucky to have a father like hers who so valued a girl’s mind, who thought his daughter had the capacity to become as great a scholar as any son. In Nag’s End, most girls were married off as soon as possible, and once married, they had no chance of being anything but helpmate to a husband. That was why Greenwitches never married. To yoke oneself to a man was to cleave yourself in two, so her father always said. He had told her many a time that if she studied, and if she attained the level of skill he desired for her, when the time was right, he would take her to the palace city. He’d once held a well-respected position there but had left the city upon meeting her mother. Sometimes Rowan sensed that her father, more than anything, wanted to return to that stunning place with its magnificent castle set high upon rocky cliffs.

  Someday, she told herself, she would journey down the mountain passes that spilled from the north like spider veins, all the way to where the warm waters met pebbled shores, and see the palace city with her own eyes. She had heard enough stories, had seen enough artists’ renderings to know that it was an enchanted place, a magnificent city pearled with sapphire canals.

  Someday, Rowan told herself, someday she would see it with her own eyes, perhaps even live there. Her studies were the key, and she was capable of mastering them. Her father had said as much, and she hoped with all her heart that he was right.