The Glass Casket

by Templeman, Mccormick

  “Yes. It’s just outside the village, to the east,” Paer Jorgen said, his voice quiet but clear. “It’s where the ancients used to lay down their dead. They dug holes there and put them below ground. It’s not our way. It’s the old way, but we figure it’s better than naught. We did the best we could for your soldiers. We laid some river stones atop to bless them on their journey.”

  The duke put a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes as if to still the anger within him. “Of course that’s what you did.” He opened his eyes, fresh fire burning there. “And the result is that I have no bodies to bring back to those soldiers’ families. I cannot hand them a pile of ashes to push out to sea. They would call me a monster.”

  “Please understand, sir,” said Paer Jorgen. “We meant no harm.”

  “No.” The duke shook his head, and his voice grew quiet. “Of course you didn’t. But listen here, this will not happen again. If you can lay the ashes in the cimetière, then you can lay this girl’s body there too. You’ll do it at once.”

  “But we can’t do that,” Draeden Faez nearly yelped.

  The duke’s shoulders slumped, and seemingly exhausted, he asked, “And why not?”

  The old man stumbled over his words. “The ground is unquiet there. We … we can’t put her there unburned.”

  “But that’s where you put the ashes.”

  “That’s different,” said Tate. “Ashes can’t very well rise, can they?”

  The duke groaned. “Fine, then it seems your only other choice is to put her up at your Mouth of the Goddess.”

  “That we could never do,” said Draeden Faez, solemnly shaking his head.

  “And why not?” asked the duke, his face growing red with frustration.

  “I don’t know how you do things with your sea burials,” continued the old man, “but up here, the dead are holy things. They are prepared and offered up to the Goddess. To give her something so unclean would be worse than sacrilege. With that ghoulish display, that coffin of glass, we’re already at risk. Mountain folk or sea, displaying a corpse goes against the laws of the dead. You have to admit that.”

  “Of course.” The duke nodded. “We would never do such a thing. Like you say, we send our dead out to sea. It is clean and simple and does not leave room for all these complications.”

  “So you see,” said Draeden Faez, “we can’t lay her at the Mouth of the Goddess.”

  The duke sighed. “Very well. What about my way? What about a water burial? There’s a lake nearby, isn’t there?”

  “Seelie Lake,” said Paer Jorgen. “But that’s fairy business.”

  The duke couldn’t keep from laughing. “Surely you people can’t still believe in fairies.”

  “Fairies or no,” said Tak Carlysle. “The lake is frozen now. Lot of good it would do to set her out there in a boat atop the ice.”

  “Listen to me,” the duke said, clearly tired of arguing. “You will bury her at this cimetière you speak of. It may not be your Mouth of the Goddess, but it’s a burial ground at least. If it was good enough for your ancients, it’s good enough for you.”

  “But—”

  The duke raised his hand. “It’s not as if I’m asking you to bury her in the village square. I’m telling you to lay her in a burial ground. You will do this. If I find out anyone has other plans, if anyone strays from my command, the offense will be punishable by death. Do you understand?”

  The room was quiet. Dark eyes watched him, and slowly the villagers nodded. Without another word, the duke turned back around and strode out through the heavy wooden doors.

  For Lareina Flint, the rites were performed, her body put to rest up on Cairn Hill at the Mouth of the Goddess with as much pomp as the people of Nag’s End could muster. But things were different for Fiona Eira.

  The cimetière was a dark place. Through the wood and to the east, where men did not often walk, it was an ancient place, surrounded by an archaic stone wall. It was commonly believed that the spirits of the old ones lingered there, polluting the air. The ground in the cimetière never froze. No one knew why. It wasn’t the kind of thing one wanted to spend much time contemplating. The soil there was thick and gray, an unchanging claylike substance that remained malleable despite the weather. No one but an elder was allowed to walk the grounds of the cimetière. It was said that to stay there too long could cause a man’s legs to wither, and his lungs to slowly fill up with blood.

  A small group gathered, and Rowan was surprised to see the witches among them. They kept to themselves, though they did look her way once or twice. The day was not without incident. The corpse, already desecrated by its placement in that glass abomination, suffered further sullying when one of the pallbearers tripped, sending Fiona’s body tumbling to the ground. The calamity caused the shroud to unravel, and her body landed faceup in the dirt at Mama Lune’s feet. The villagers gasped, and some covered their eyes, but Rowan noticed a look of fierce intensity—almost horror—on Mama Lune’s face as she stared at the body. Rowan tried to follow the witch’s eyes to see what was causing her such distress, but by then the pallbearers had collected the body, and there was nothing to see. Rowan looked around her, and while people seemed rattled by the chaos of the tumbling body, no one appeared particularly distressed—no one except Mama Lune. She watched the Greenwitch whisper something in the Bluewitch’s ear, and then Rowan turned her attention back to the proceedings, her heart heavy as she saw the enshrouded body carried through the stone arch to the center of the burial ground. When she looked over to where the witches had been standing, she saw that they were gone.

  Inside the burial ground, the elders performed the modified rites over Fiona’s body. They watched her corpse sink into the ground, and when it had disappeared from view, they laid the stones atop, although those too were quickly swallowed up by the hungry clay. By the time the elders were finished, the small funeral crowd outside the wall had dispersed, and Rowan was alone with Tom, gazing at the decaying necropolis that housed her sleeping cousin.

  Ollen Bittern looked mournful when he hobbled out through the arch. “Terrible business.”

  The other two elders followed, their solemn eyes downcast. They nodded to Tom and Rowan, and then the three old men, their duty done, started back to the village.

  Tom bit his lip as he watched them go, and Rowan could tell he was trying to keep himself from crying. There was no use hiding his grief. Rowan could tell he was being ravaged by it. His face was swollen and discolored, and his eyes were red and lifeless. Rowan had never seen him look so bad.

  “You haven’t been sleeping, have you?” she asked, taking his hand as they walked home.

  He shook his head and looked off into the trees. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I didn’t even really know her. People aren’t supposed to react like this. I feel so foolish.”

  “No, you’re not foolish,” Rowan said. “I didn’t know her either, but for some reason, I’ve been sick with grief as well.”

  He nodded. “If she’d died normally, it might be different, but to go like that—with such violence. And then everything since has been so warped, so gruesome.”

  “It’s true,” Rowan said, a heaviness settling on her chest. “It’s as if a plague has descended on Nag’s End.”

  Rowan watched as the crows flew overhead, northeast to southwest, and she was quick to make the sign of the Goddess.

  “Things will be okay,” Tom said, that blank look still in his eyes. “I just need to get back to normal. I’ll pitch in more around the tavern. Work will help.”

  “Do you want me to come visit you tomorrow? We could go on a walk.”

  He turned and smiled at her—a genuine smile, the first sign of life she’d seen from him since Fiona’s death. “I’d like that.”

  When they started back on the path to the village, Rowan heard something coming toward them through the trees. Since they were outside the village barrier, she was especially uneasy, and she tensed at the noise, but r
elaxed when Jude came into view. Tom groaned.

  “What?” Rowan asked.

  “I don’t want to see him right now.”

  “He saved your life the other night. I have to say I didn’t expect that from him.”

  “Jude is Jude. No one knows why he does what he does. Anyway, he’s driving me crazy lately—always pestering me to sleep or eat.”

  “How awful of him,” Rowan laughed.

  When Jude reached them, he was breathing heartily. “Father wants you at the inn,” he said to Tom. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Rowan was offended that Jude didn’t bother to acknowledge her, and Tom looked to his friend with sympathy. “I’m going to walk Rowan home,” he said. “We’re past the village barrier.”

  Jude tossed back his head in annoyance, and finally making eye contact with Rowan, he gave her a quick smirk. “Tom,” he said. “Father needs you right now. It’s about tonight’s hunt. He told me to fetch you as fast as I could. Rowan will be fine. She could take on a wolf any day of the week.”

  “Jude,” Tom said, losing patience. “I’ll be home after I walk her.”

  “Fine,” Jude said, closing his eyes in frustration. “I’ll walk her. Just hurry up and get home, will you?”

  Tom seemed to think it over, and then he looked at Rowan. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asked. Rowan nodded, and he set off quickly back through the shortcut to his end of the village, leaving her to walk with Jude, a wide berth between them.

  “I have a message for you,” Jude said when they were alone.

  She turned to look at him and saw that he was grinning at her.

  “What?” she asked, barely able to believe her ears. “What can you possibly have to say to me?”

  “It’s from Mama Lune,” he said. “She needs to talk to you. She says it’s an emergency.”

  Rowan stopped in her tracks and looked at the strange, handsome boy she considered anything but a friend. “You must be joking.”

  “I’m not,” he said, his dark eyes awash with wickedness. “Why do you think I had Tom run off like that?”

  Rowan balked. “You mean your father doesn’t really need to speak with him?”

  Jude shook his head. “The run will do him good. Clear his head. And I’m to take you through the woods to Mama Lune’s.”

  He reached for her, and as he took her hand in his, she felt a strange electricity, a connection passing between them. Suddenly his eyes widened as if he’d felt it too, but Rowan pulled away.

  “What does she want with me?”

  “Did you not get the note from Mama Tetri?” he asked, and Rowan nearly stopped, she was so surprised. “She’s come to Nag’s End specifically to see you. Did you not know?”

  “What?” Rowan asked, a sick feeling in her stomach. The idea of the witch traveling all the way to Nag’s End solely to speak with her filled her with foreboding. She knew for certain that she did not want to hear whatever the woman might have to say. It wasn’t that she believed in magic, but Bluewitches were diviners. What if this one had actually seen something about Rowan’s future? What if she knew something about Rowan that she herself did not want to know?

  “If she wants to speak with me,” she said, clearing her throat, “she can come and knock on my door.”

  Jude groaned. “You know she can’t do that.”

  “Well, why not?”

  “Your father hasn’t been exactly friendly to witches. And Mama Lune hasn’t liked him ever since he tried to have her sent away from the village.”

  “My father did no such thing,” Rowan said, outraged.

  “Sure he did. Back when we were small. She told me so.”

  Rowan spoke deliberately, as if she were trying to explain something to a child. “Understand me now, Jude. I don’t care what that witch has to tell me. She’s no friend of mine, and I refuse to go off into the woods alone to seek the council of a charlatan.”

  Jude laughed and shook his head. “I can assure you she’s no charlatan, and you won’t be alone. I’ll be with you.”

  Rowan closed her eyes. “Jude, listen to me. The only thing I’d like less than spending time with a witch is spending time with you and a witch. Do you understand me?”

  A dark wave passed over Jude’s exquisite features. “Fine,” he said, and taking a step away from her, he started walking back toward the woods. “Suit yourself.”

  Rowan turned and started walking away from him, but after a few steps she turned back and was surprised to find he’d actually gone. She was alone, outside the village bounds, and night was drawing near. Whether goblins and fairies existed—and truth be told, in her heart of hearts, she thought they might—there was no question that a dark force was afoot in the Black Forest, and quite suddenly she was terrified to be alone outside the village barrier. And then she thought she heard something move somewhere back behind the trees. Wrapping her cloak tight around herself, she hurried along the path, keeping her eyes on the woods as she went. She did not relax until she felt her hand on the heavy oak of her front door.

  Despite enthusiasm, the hunt turned up nothing—not so much as scatological evidence of the creature they sought. Jude went along with the others, pleased that he’d successfully convinced Tom, who was in no shape for a hunt, to remain at home. Yet as he made his way through the trees, Jude felt certain that while there had been something in these woods very recently, it was no longer there. He knew long before the hunt was over that their efforts would come to naught. But he also knew something else: whatever he’d sensed out there, had been sensing in the woods for some time now, a group of villagers—no matter how rich their weaponry—were no match for it. When he finally settled down to sleep at the break of dawn, weary from the night’s hunt, he felt a strange emotion—something he’d not felt since childhood. He tossed and turned, trying to quiet his heart, trying to comprehend the source of the heaviness there, and then he understood. He who had walked the night woods hundreds of times, he who had seen things out there that would make a grown man cry, was suddenly and utterly afraid.

  The next morning, Rowan awoke early and went downstairs to find the duke in the sitting room beside a fresh pot of coffee. He was examining a thick stack of papers, which Rowan realized with some trepidation were her translations.

  “Good morning,” she said, bowing.

  Startled, he nearly spilled coffee on himself. Putting his things down, he stood to his full height and beamed at her. His smile made her feel quite unusual—as if she were standing directly in the light of the sun, absorbing all the warmth it had to offer.

  “Va Rose,” he said, bowing. “What a pleasure it is to see you.”

  “I thought you didn’t care for formalities,” she said, grinning up at him.

  “I don’t,” he laughed. “But I have been reading over your translations, and I must admit, I am stunned by your abilities. You are gifted, and in the presence of such a gift, I cannot help but use the honorific.”

  Hearing such praise, and from someone so respected, Rowan felt herself nearly swelling with pride. “You think they are good?”

  “Good?” he said, guiding her to sit across from him. “They are magnificent. You must tell me, what are your plans for your future? Have you ever thought of coming to the palace city? You should really think seriously about visiting my library.”

  “I …” Rowan started to speak but was so overwhelmed with the possibility of leaving Nag’s End that she couldn’t find the words.

  “I’m sorry. I must sound foolish,” he said, his smile deliciously vibrant. “But please understand. I am so excited by your work. I feel that if I could spend some time with you, and really train you with all the palace city has to offer, that there’d be no end to what you could do. Together we could work wonders. I’m certain of it.”

  Rowan could barely believe him, and yet he seemed so genuine, and she wanted so terribly for it to be true. She smiled. “I am proud of my work, but it can’t be more skilled than that of the king’
s scholars.”

  He looked away for a second, as if trying to decide something, and when he met her eyes again, there was an intimacy there that surprised her. “I have certain projects … certain personal projects that I like to keep separate from the king’s affairs. And these projects, they need a fresh eye, someone whose mind is open and sharp, ready to make connections that wearied minds can’t see.”

  Rowan considered. “And my father would work with you as well?”

  “Of course,” the duke said, clapping his hands together.

  Rowan leaned back in her seat and observed him for a moment, his golden locks and dark green eyes, the slant of his jaw and the slope of his chest, and she thought that it wouldn’t be so bad to work alongside such a man. More importantly, her father could finally fulfill his dream of returning to the palace city.

  “That sounds wonderful,” she said, and a beautiful grin spread across his face.

  A noise at the door pulled her attention away from him. Emily stood at the entrance, carrying a tray of scones and looking back and forth between her and the duke. Upon noticing Emily’s presence, he pulled himself up to sit straighter, and he lowered his eyes. Rowan thought she could see a faint blush rising in his cheeks.

  “Your father’ll be down in a minute,” she said to Rowan, giving her a meaningful look. “Why don’t you come help me in the kitchen?”

  Rowan, suddenly flustered, stood and followed Emily out just as her father, anxiously shuffling papers, bustled into the room, barely acknowledging her as they passed.

  When she reached the kitchen and the door had swung shut behind them, Emily set down her tray and grabbed Rowan by the shoulders.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she whispered crossly.

  “What do you mean?” Rowan asked, trying to hide her embarrassment.

  “I saw you two in there making eyes at each other. What are you playing at, Rowan? That man is the queen’s brother.”

  “So?” Rowan wrenched herself away from Emily’s grip. “He’s a good man.”