Across the Long Sea

by Sarah Remy

  “A ser­viceable number?” Mal echoed, even as he eased a woman’s thin, suffocated corpse onto the pile. “You speak of men and women, not cogs in a misfunctioning bilge pump.”

  The woman’s mouth twisted without mirth. She touched the collar around her neck.

  “Little difference, necromancer,” she replied. “But that the bilge pump, even broken, is far more valuable.”

  Chapter Ten

  AVANI MADE PETER pull up outside Mors Keep, alongside the ruins of an old water wheel. The wheel lay on its side against the riverbank, rotting. The wheelhouse itself was long vanished, although Avani thought she could pick out stone foundations hidden in high grass.

  Their horses drank eagerly of the clear, sweet water. The River Mors was high with the swell of late spring. Avani squatted in the shallows, bathing her face and neck. It was far warmer in the valley than above in the highlands. The heat made her shirt and trousers cling uncomfortably; she’d grown used to mountain air.

  “Lord Gavin’s at home,” Peter remarked, indicating the flag flying above the keep.

  “The lord’s always at home,” Avani returned. “Isn’t that the point of him? To guard the river road east? What’s the good of a kingsman if he abandons his post?”

  Peter’s jaw set.

  “I only meant,” he wrapped the bay’s reins about a bit of grass, then did the same with the chestnut, “we’ve a bit of time if you’d like to have a word with the man. I understand he monitors your post.”

  Avani stood up, shook water from her hands, and sighed.

  “What happened to haste, man? The mad rush from Stonehill before the sun was up? You lashed your poor horse most of the way down the mountain. And now you want to stop for a chat?”

  Peter had the grace to color.

  “I only hoped—­mayhap there’s been word. A letter, or a token, waiting for you in the post?”

  “From my Lord Vocent?” Avani considered. She’d braided her long hair back, then pinned it up and away from her face in deference to the heat. “Well, then. I suppose there’s that possibility, if slim. If my lord stepped on trouble, he’d send a rider, and not to me.”

  “Go and inquire,” Peter suggested. His tone was just short of command.

  Avani nodded, then paused. She eyed the man from head to toe, let him see her disapproval, arched both brows as she often with Liam when the boy was in particular need of rebuke.

  “You’re a changed fellow, Peter Shean,” she said. “You were kind to me, once. I haven’t forgotten, even if you have. Your lovely sister would be well disappointed. She was a woman who understands the importance of good temper even in the worst of circumstances.”

  Peter stared back, uncowed. Avani had the distinct feeling the man was looking straight through her.

  “I’ll wait here,” he said. “Give Lord Gavin His Majesty’s regards.”

  THE NEW LORD was cheerful in spite of his surprise. He let Avani under the portcullis, and gave her a friendly thump on the arm.

  “Everin was just here,” he said. “Didn’t expect another visit for a fortnight. My lady will be pleased to see you, though. She’s already planning next winter’s wardrobe, and has many questions for you.”

  “I’m only passing through,” Avani said with real regret. “On the way to the city. I haven’t time to visit, I’m afraid. Have you any post?”

  “Nay, mistress,” Lord Gavin answered, baffled. “I gave the latest to Everin, and it was only the usual accountings from the Fair. Hasn’t he passed them on?”

  “Ai, he did. I only wondered if there was anything recently come, or unusual. From court, perhaps? Particularly the Lord Vocent?”

  “No, missus, and I know his hand well.” The man regarded Avani soberly. “Is there trouble?”

  “Some,” admitted Avani. “Keep an eye out, will you? Send a rider if anything arrives?”

  Lord Gavin nodded, pulling thoughtfully on ginger whiskers. “I’ve a quick lad, I’ll send him right away anything turns up. I’ve been thinking of sending him to the city anyway. Once the season’s passed. He’s spending too much time hunting barrowmen in the back fields as it is.”

  Avani hid a frown. “Is that so? Barrowmen? In your fields? They’ve come so low?”

  The new lord nodded. He had clear blue eyes, meant for merriment, but there were new worry lines etched into his brow.

  “They’re in the east fields,” he said. “We hear them, sometimes, singing beneath the earth. They leave impressions in the alfalfa, grass laid flat as one of your rugs, mistress. My boy recalls he’s seen them, at night, hunting our stock. He’s taken to patrolling the perimeter walls, foolish lad. It’s not likely they’ll test the keep. But his mother doesn’t like him searching out the barrows in the day, you understand, missus.”

  “Your lady has the right of it. Keep your lad away.” Avani glanced around the bailey. “And fire to hand, after dark. They don’t much care for fire.” She hesitated, then rolled her shoulders in resignation. She couldn’t help but remember the last lord of the keep, brutally cut to pieces in front of his own pantry. “Wards would be preferable, my lord.”

  He nodded once in sharp agreement. “I understand the vocent is likely spread thin, missus, with the season. And now gone missing, has he? But not for long, I imagine. Most powerful man in the kingdom, below only His Majesty, Lord Malachi’s like to turn up safe. And when he does, missus, mayhap you’ll drop a word in his ear? We’ve old wards set, of course, but I misdoubt they’ve been tuned in a generation, not since old Lord Andrew walked the roads, and even then it weren’t the barrowmen they were tuned to.”

  “Best not wait for my lord,” Avani said, although she wished she could. “Not if they’re prowling your fields. If you show me the wards, I’ll tune them as best I can.”

  “You, missus?” The lord caught himself, schooled his expression from disbelief to careful respect. “You will tune the wards? That’s vocent’s work, missus.”

  “It’s a matter of knowing what to do,” Avani corrected, more sharply than she’d intended. “I’ve the learning and the knack of it. Lord Malachi has been kind enough to teach me a thing or two along the way.”

  “He’s training you up,” the lord said, blunt. “And here my wife thought he was writing you love notes. Begging your pardon, of course.” He studied Avani more closely. “Are you magus, then?”

  “Close enough.”

  “And you’ve a way with wards?”

  “In theory.” Avani straightened her shoulders. “I’m confident I can provide you better protection than you have now. But if you’re dubious, man, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll not meddle where I’m unwelcome.”

  The lord’s frown split to a wide smile. This time when he thumped Avani on the back, she staggered beneath his enthusiasm.

  “Not at all, not at all,” he said. “I’m hardly eager to send my only lad out into the fields with fire. My lady will be over the moon. Let’s get to it. Where do we start?”

  “YOU’RE WASTING GOOD daylight,” Peter complained. He tracked Avani through the high golden grass against the keep walls. He carried with him a length of branch broken from a low-­hanging linden, and used the tip to brush back vegetation where grass and vine clung to the base of the graystone battlements. “I don’t fancy riding through the night.”

  “Neither do I.” Avani walked the fingers of one hand across warm graystone. “We’ll wait until morning. The horses need the rest; you’ve ridden them too hard as it is.”

  “Necessity is an unkind master. You’re needed in Wilhaiim, Avani. Let the lord of Mors Keep fend for himself. The lad’s imagining things. The sidhe are well contained beneath the Downs.”

  “The lord has a name, you’ve used it yourself. His wife gave up city comfort for this post. They’ve got a ginger-­haired lad who’d rather be fighting barrowmen than studying his letters. His name
is John. They’re good ­people, in need of protection. I’ll rest easier nights knowing we’ve done what we can to leave them safe. Won’t you?”

  Peter’s branch scraped angrily against graystone.

  “Aye,” he muttered, then: “Do you even know how to set wards, Avani?”

  “If I don’t, I’m not much good to Renault when it comes to greater magics,” Avani hedged. “It’s a lovely little test, ai. If I can’t set this right, best go home without me and look for a better solution.”

  “Hah. I know you better than that. Well, then. Tell me. What exactly are we looking for?”

  “Ghost magic,” Avani replied with distaste. She paused, swiping damp tendrils of hair from her face, waiting as Peter drew close. “Whoever first warded the keep, he’ll have set the magic into something solid, yet tied to the spirit world. A bit of jewelry, taken from a corpse, a scrap of clothing? Relics, charged and then set to ward around the walls, to the north, the east, the south, and the west. Buried, I think. Or mortared into the stone itself.”

  “And you’ll just—­what?—­recognize each ward as you trod upon it?” Peter leaned on his branch. “What if they’re buried deep? Or set behind layers of mortar?”

  “I’ll know them,” Avani said. “It’s the shiver of corpse magic I’ll recognize.”

  “Bone?” Peter suggested. “Jewelry or scrap clothing, you said. Also bone?”

  “Obviously.” Avani couldn’t help but assume the man was being purposefully obtuse. “Bone being the most basic of choices.”

  “There’s bone in the wheelhouse.” Peter reversed and shoved his way through high grass. “I noticed it, earlier. Phalanges in the keystone.”

  “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Avani hurried after. “And you the one wanting to rush.”

  Peter shrugged without looking around. “I didn’t know we were looking for a bones, did I? Besides, it’s not unusual, though generations out of practice. Grandfather’s arm bone kept back and bricked into the family cottage for superstition or luck.”

  “Abomination.” Avani spat into the long grass, revolted. “It’s no wonder this continent is hung about with unhappy ghouls. How can your ancestors rest, tied still to soil and rock?”

  The horses had trampled flat much of the grass around the rotting water wheel. The ground where they’d grazed was wet and slippery. Peter poked about with his branch, muttering as he scaled a small hillock behind the wheel. Avani climbed after, slipping once and gashing her hands on stone. More stone lay hidden under the grass; graystone brick still firm in the soil. The edges of foundation she’d noticed earlier appeared to be only a small portion of the ruin.

  “The keep was flush, once,” Peter said. “Look, there. Millstone. The lord’s crop would have been ground on-­site. A wheel this size, he must have sent at least some of the flour on for trade.”

  “What changed that someone let it fall to ruin?” Avani wondered. She set her palm against the flat, round stone. It was warm as the walls around the keep, but worn smooth by use.

  “Bad yield? A holding decimated by plague? A lord preferring alfalfa over wheat crop? Who knows? The bones are there, in that corner.”

  Avani felt the ward before she saw the bones, and wondered that she hadn’t noticed the pull of old magic earlier. She exhaled, eyes closed, and sent silver fingers of power questing across the grassy hillock. The ward was a white star in her head, and when her magic brushed across along the surface of old bones, it flared to wakefulness behind her eyelids, blue and yellow, steadier than candle flame.

  “Ah!” Avani’s eyes snapped open. “Not plague, or failing crop. Marauders. Bright-­eyed men from the east, over the mountains, with spears and burning arrows.”

  “Desert tribes,” Peter said, surprised. “But the last eastern invasion was long before Andrew’s time.”

  “Nevertheless, it’s how these bones are tuned.” Avani chewed her lip, thoughtful. “There may be other wards, more recent. But this set will do, she’s still very strong, and now I’ve touched her, the other stations will be easy to find.”

  “She? A woman’s bones, then?” Peter glanced about the hillock. “Is she here?”

  “I’m not looking for her, am I?” Avani returned, sharp, although she could feel the weight of ghostly blue eyes between her shoulder blades. “The dead are best left to rest.”

  “As you like. You can reset the wards against the barrowmen?”

  “There’s only the one way to find out.” Avani extended one hand. “Lend me your branch.”

  It was a simple cant. She’d mastered the basics of a warding. Her protective silver bubble had served her well enough in the barrows; it was only a matter of taking that principle and making it bigger, large enough to encompass the entire keep, anchoring it in the four directional corners by way of each skeletal fragment. Avani disliked using human remains in such a way. It was disrespectful, and she complained audibly as she used Peter’s branch to unearth a shinbone buried against the bailey’s eastmost battlement.

  Peter, sweating and outwardly bored, listened without sympathy.

  “How was it done on your islands?”

  “With honor.” Avani filled the shinbone with memories of the barrowmen, of sharp-­toothed, flat-­eyed sidhe hungering for human flesh. She could feel the moment the ward reset to a new enemy. The shift made her momentarily dizzy, and she had to lean her weight upon the branch. “With prayer and ceremony and celebration. This feels like coercion.”

  Peter shrugged. He sat on the earth, weaving long grass into fanciful patterns.

  “I don’t suppose the lord and his wife and ginger-­haired son care much how you go about it, so long as their home is protected.”

  The man had a point, and the truth made Avani bristle. She’d been orphaned before her mother and brothers had thought to teach her anything more than a few simple hearth spells. Now she had only Mal as a teacher, and his learning felt foreign, the phrases wrong even as she spoke them aloud. But the old wards around the keep recognized corpse magic, and responded, and Avani didn’t dare vary the rite.

  “Still, she doesn’t seem to mind it terribly,” she allowed, as they kicked through underbrush, seeking the last of the four wards. Green fields ran between the battlements and the horizon, stalks shifting lazily in the heat.

  “The dead woman whose bones you employ?” Peter squinted at the sky. The sun was dropping behind the Downs, but there was plenty of daylight still left. Avani wondered if her companion would insist on traveling on once she’d finished. If so, they’d surely make the edge of the king’s scarlet woods before evening.

  “Not I. Her bones were set to the task long ago. But, ai.” Avani peeked sideways. The ghostie, risen from the earth with the charging of the millstone phalanges, seemed content to follow them from quarter to quarter, watching placidly. She was an older matron, wrapped in a wispy shroud, long hair flowing free. Her ghostly face remembered laugh lines and joy, and she seemed not at all insulted when Avani insisted on ignoring her mostly inaudible whispers. “I wish I could set her free. Burn her bones and banish her spirit.”

  “What if you did?” Peter asked, grudgingly curious.

  “The wards would die. Unless I mean to set up home in the keep, and feed the spell myself. Feasible, in Ra’Vadin’s time, when there was a magus in every village. Or so I’m led to understand.”

  Avani wrinkled her nose. She could feel the last ward, a tickle like a sneeze in the back of her head and at the tips of her elbows, but she couldn’t find it. When she brushed the graystone wall, the itch grew muted. If she took two strides away from the keep and back into the field, the quiver grew, making her teeth ache. She abandoned her branch, propping it against the battlements.

  “Not in the walls, this time,” she said, puzzled. She fisted her hands on her hips. The dead woman, standing on the edge of green crop, clucked her tongue
. Avani pretended to not notice.

  “Here.” Peter stopped, spreading alfalfa with both hands. “Look. I believe you’ve made a mistake, my lady. Helena Baker wasn’t coerced.”

  “Helena Baker?” Avani waded through crop. The increasing itch in her skull made her shudder. “Oh.”

  The grave was plain in the manner of flatlander tradition, a narrow slab of graystone set in the earth, now almost lost beneath grass soil. Peter brushed moss from the inscription with his hand, tutting in echo of the ghost.

  “ ‘Blessed in life, useful in death. Helena Baker keeps darkness at bay,’ ” Peter read, tracing the inscription. “Mayhap she signed on for the duty.”

  Avani grunted in reluctant agreement. “Mal would know.”

  “Mal’s not here, is he? You’re what we’ve got. My lady.” Peter straightened. He waved an impatient hand. “There. We’ve found it. What are you waiting for?”

  The honorific didn’t escape Avani’s notice. She couldn’t tell from his face whether he meant it in respect or derision. She wondered what had happened to the merry friend she’d made first at court. He’d been broken by his sister’s murder. Had he stuck the pieces of himself back together with only bitterness, like mortar to graystone?

  “Go and let his lordship know we’re near finished,” Avani said, dismissing the man. “I’ll finish this final one myself.”

  Peter nodded and walked away without a backward glance, the crop murmuring a restless susurrus as he passed.

  Avani pressed her lips together. She caught herself looking for Jacob, used to that bright black eye as her sympathetic companion in all things exasperating. Instead Helena Baker watched Avani from atop her grave slab, expectant.

  “Ai, fine. As you wish. Stubborn in life, stubborn in death. That would have suited you better.”

  The ghostie smiled, persistent. When Avani pressed her palms on the slab to reset the last quarter, the dead woman set her own hands on the stone in mimicry. Only when the spell caught and the warding encircled the keep, a bright flash of dissipating silver potent enough to stand Avani’s hair on end, did she finally disappear.