Ryn carried one and a half of the bone houses. She considered it one and a half since she hauled the man—the heavier one—in her right hand, and she helped Ellis drag the woman with her left. For all that Ellis was taller than her and seemed like he should be able to carry a sack of flour with ease, he had winced when he first tried to pick up the bone house. Perhaps he’d been badly bruised in his tussle with the dead man.
Even this early, there was smoke in the air. Smoke from stoves, from the tavern, from bakers lighting their ovens. It was always a welcoming smell to her—home.
Colbren’s iron fence encircled the village. It was simple, rungs of old metal set wide enough that a child or slender adult could slip through. The fence was rusted a bloody red, and several lines of drying clothes were strung from it. Ryn caught Ellis’s look of surprise when he saw the barrier. “Do you get many thieves?” he asked.
She shook her head. “The cities took down their iron protections after the otherfolk left. But you’ll find us countryfolk a little more wary.”
Ellis made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh. “You still worry about the tylwyth teg?”
She did not smile. “Not them. Their leavings.” She nodded down at the sacks.
“You mean magic.”
“What’s left of it.”
“And what are we to do with these?” His voice had a pleasant rasp to it, low and a little hoarse. As if he’d need to lean in to say something important.
“Burn them,” she replied. “I know the blacksmith—she’ll help.”
The smithy was on the southern edge of the village, where the winds could carry off the scents of burning metal. Ryn did not bother to knock, but rather headed around back to the forge.
Morwenna could have been anywhere from thirty to forty. With her darker skin and wiry hair, she clearly was not from Colbren—which was usually an unforgivable offense. But Morwenna had simply shown up five years ago, taken over the abandoned smithy, and after only a few weeks it had seemed as if she’d always been there.
At this moment, she wore a heavy leather apron and work gloves. She went still when Ryn and Ellis walked into view, dragging the sacks beside them. Morwenna nodded at the bundle. “Ryn.” She said the name with a bit of exasperation. “Please tell me wolves got a few of Hywel’s sheep.”
“No,” said Ryn. “Another bone house—well, two of them.”
Morwenna slipped her leather gloves off, then knelt beside the sacks. She rested one work-worn hand on them, as if trying to feel for life. “I’m not sure whether to believe you or not. You sure this wasn’t some dead vagrant you found on the road?”
Of course she wouldn’t believe Ryn—Morwenna was not of Colbren. She hadn’t grown up listening to the old tales, standing at half-cracked doors as the candles burned to nubs while the elders murmured stories of the old days. But then again, even most of the younger villagers would have agreed with Morwenna. The Otherking had left the isles in the days of Ryn’s great-grandfather, and the memories had faded into myth. Ryn’s generation had little belief in magic. Which should have been a reassurance to her—even with these strange sightings of bone houses, they might have gone on using her burial services instead of burning the dead.
But the elders remembered. And they were the ones who, more often than not, needed the services of a gravedigger.
Her empty coin purse rested against her hip; Ryn ran her fingers over one leather edge before saying, “Believe me or don’t. The bodies are real enough, and I need to burn them before nightfall. If you want proof, keep a hand for yourself and see what comes when the sun goes down.”
Morwenna flashed her a smile. “Mayhap I’ll do that—and perhaps slip it through Eynon’s window the next time he comes to collect the rent.”
Ryn tried not to smile, but she didn’t try very hard.
“Who’s this?” said Morwenna, with a look at Ellis.
“Traveler,” replied Ryn. “Looking for a place to stay.”
Morwenna’s eyes raked over Ellis. “It’ll be the Red Mare for him. Unless one of these houses pinched his coin.” She gave the words a mocking little twist, a smile on her lips.
Ryn let out a sharp breath. “Just burn them, please?”
For all her amusement, Morwenna inclined her head. With a snap of her fingers, she summoned her apprentice—a lad who looked to be about ten or eleven. Ryn turned to leave, but Morwenna called after.
“Wait.”
Ryn turned.
“You’ve got iron, right?” asked Morwenna. “At your home?”
“Of course,” said Ryn. There was a horseshoe nailed beside her home’s door frame, just like all the older village houses.
“Well, if you need more, come here. I’ve always got scraps.”
It was a gesture of good will. Even if Morwenna didn’t believe, even if she mocked and smiled, she’d offer Ryn what she could. Ryn gave her a deeper nod this time—an acknowledgment of the offer. “Thank you.”
Just before she turned to go, she saw the apprentice begin to shove the canvas wrappings and their contents into the forge. Sparks flew into the air and Ryn hastened out of the room before the flames could truly catch. Burning the cursed dead was a kindness—but it also smelled rank.
The Red Mare was a large home that had been turned into a tavern. The upstairs rooms were for rent, and the downstairs consisted of an eatery and a tavern. Mostly, people went to hear the town’s gossip.
“Go on in.” Ryn nodded to the door. “Ask for Enid—tell her that I sent you and she’ll charge you a reasonable fee.”
Enid had always been at the Red Mare. She had always been red-cheeked and smiling, always widowed, always with frizzy gray hair. She would probably take one look at Ellis and decide the lad needed fattening up.
“Thank you,” said Ellis. “I appreciate you bringing me here—and, again, for saving me from that… thing.”
Ryn held out her hand, palm up.
Ellis smiled, took her hand, and shook it. His fingers were colder and softer than hers, lacking the calluses that creased her palm. When he released her, Ryn’s hand remained in place. Ellis stared, then understanding lit behind his eyes.
“Ah, right.” He fished about in his pack and came up with several coins. He dropped them into her palm.
She nodded, pocketed the coins, and walked away. “I’d keep to the roads, if I were you. At least until you find better maps.”
She heard his snort—and she smiled to herself. But then she picked up her pace, and as she strode through the village, all thoughts of Ellis faded away.
Her home was on the edge of Colbren. It looked like the other old houses—wooden walls, thatched roof, and smoke rising from the chimney. There was a large yard where they kept the chickens and the single goat they could afford. The chickens were merrily strolling about the house, searching for food in the tangled grasses.
It felt as if a fist loosened around her heart when she pushed the door open and stepped inside. She savored the small familiarities: Woodsmoke, clean clothes hanging up to dry, the elaborate wooden spoons her father had carved for her mother hanging on the wall, and the goat—
The goat.
There was a goat standing in the hallway.
She looked at Ryn, opened her mouth, and bleated a greeting.
“Ceri,” said Ryn, her voice rising. “Why is your goat in the house?”
There came the clatter of metal, a curse, and then Gareth stumbled out of the kitchen. He wore an apron and carried a cooking spoon in one hand. He waved the spoon at the goat. “Oh, not again. Shoo! Get out!”
The goat gave him a flat stare.
“Ceri, your goat’s in the house again,” called Gareth.
No answer.
“Ceridwen!” This time Gareth bellowed so loudly that both Ryn and the goat jumped. “Get your goat out of the house!”
Footsteps thudded across the floor, and Ceri came rushing into the room, hair ribbons streaming out behind her. “Good morning,”
said Ryn, a trifle drily. “I see things have gone well in my absence.”
Ceri took gentle hold of the goat and began ushering her toward the front door. “Good morning!”
“How come Ryn gets a ‘good morning’ and I get a ‘what’s for breakfast,’” Gareth said. He still held the cooking spoon, and for the first time, Ryn noticed the batter that clung to his fingers. He must have been making griddle cakes.
“Because your idea of telling me a story last night was to get out your accounts ledger,” said Ceri, grinning. As she strode by, tugging the goat, she rose to tiptoe and dropped a kiss on her brother’s cheek. He sighed, waving her off as he retreated toward the kitchen.
There was an ease to Ceri’s affection that Ryn envied. She kissed everything from the chickens to freshly baked loaves of bread. For Ryn, kisses were—
A press of lips against the braided crown of her hair. The dry rasp of her mam’s cough when she pressed a handkerchief to her mouth, blood staining the folds.
—farewells.
Trying to push her thoughts aside, Ryn followed her little sister into the yard. The goat was tugging restlessly at the rope lead, staring hungrily at a patch of vetch near the iron fence.
“The goat should go in the pen,” she said. “Letting her wander about is bound to get us in—”
Her voice faded.
A man stood in the yard. He could not have looked more out of place amid the overgrown grass and the chickens. He wore the crisp, clean clothes of a nobleman. His hair was silver, and he held himself rigidly straight.
“—trouble,” said Ryn. “Ah. Hello there, Master Eynon.”
She had never liked Lord Eynon. He was the sort who would run over a person’s cat with his cart, then coolly deliver the body with a warning that should such an incident happen again, he would take it up with the cantref court.
Ryn should know. She’d been ten and she’d loved that cat.
“I suppose you know why I’m here.” His voice had a silky tone, and it set Ryn’s teeth on edge. She thought of her axe and decided it was likely a good thing she wasn’t still carrying it.
“I do,” Ryn replied, unwavering. “And I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone payment.”
Eynon’s fingers slid down his spotless sleeve. He straightened it, studying the fine material with studious care. “I am not sure what you mean, my dear girl.”
Ryn resisted the urge to tell him that she was not his dear girl. “The Turners decided not to use our services. And if we give you payment now, with no certainty that we’ll bury anyone else before winter, we might not be able to feed ourselves.” She was half aware of the door opening behind her, of Gareth walking into the yard. Ceri moved closer, the goat’s lead still in hand. Ryn wondered if it was a show of strength, or if her siblings felt better with their elder sister between them and the irritable noble.
“I see.” Eynon gave her a cool look, and he sighed. “That is a pity. You see, your uncle was already late in returning payment to me. I fear that if I’m not paid in full soon… I will have to take the coin from elsewhere.” He stepped back, his gaze sweeping over the house. “Perhaps by selling this place.”
Ryn’s fingers clenched. “You can’t just—”
“I can,” he said. “And if I’m not paid within the fortnight, I will.”
Anger rose within her; it was the kind of anger that came from helplessness, that made wild animals snarl and bite. She wanted to threaten Eynon the way he had threatened her, and the words slipped out before she could stop them. “Surely you skim enough coin from the coffers that you should be giving to the prince. Our uncle’s debts won’t inconvenience you.”
Eynon’s expression went flat and his gaze fixed on her.
She heard Gareth’s sharp intake of breath. He stepped forward, placing himself between Eynon and Ryn. “Debts cancel each other out,” he said quickly. “If you were to forgive our uncle’s debts, we would no longer hold a claim on you.”
Eynon gave him a cold look. “What?”
“The coin you owe our family,” said Gareth. “For the scouting job our father took.” If Ryn did not know him so well, she would not have heard the slight hitch in his voice. “From which he did not return.”
“He did not complete the job,” said Eynon, voice silkier than ever. “I paid those who did.”
“He died,” snarled Ryn.
“His companions cannot confirm that.” Eynon flicked a piece of dried grass from his sleeve. “According to them, your father went into the mine and did not come out. Perhaps he tired of your family and decided to wait until the cover of night to slip away.”
“He would never have—”
“And it is all moot,” said Eynon. “Without a body, you can’t prove his death. And I am under no obligation to give you coin for a never-completed expedition. As for your uncle… he does owe me. He never was a good gambler. You are obligated to pay that debt.”
He gave them a smile and turned to go. Ryn breathed in, held that breath like her mother used to tell her to, and then exhaled slowly. She had to be calm. She had to handle this like a proper adult. She had to—
“Release the goat,” she said quietly.
Ceri looked up at her, confused. Then she loosened her hold on the goat’s lead. The goat blinked at her sudden freedom, looking about. Goats were rather opinionated creatures. Once they got it in their mind to do something, dissuading them could be a battle. As for Ceri’s goat, she had long ago decided that the yard was hers—as were the people within it. Intruders were not to be tolerated.
The goat took one look at Eynon and lowered her head. Hooves thumped on the packed earth, and Eynon heard the approach just in time. He turned to see the goat barreling down on him, and surprise flashed across his face. He tore into a run, fine coat billowing behind him. Chickens scattered out of his path as he sprinted away, enraged goat on his heels. Eynon snarled, scrabbled for something to defend himself with, and ended up tossing a handful of dead grass at the goat.
The goat was not deterred. She chased him from the yard, and the two vanished around a corner.
“Oh no,” said Ceri, in an utterly neutral voice. “The goat got loose.”
“You should get her back before she wanders to the baker and begins begging for scraps,” said Ryn.
Ceri grinned and skipped away, her hair ribbons still drifting over her shoulders.
Ryn stood there, shaking with anger, until Gareth came up behind her. “I’m not sure that was wise,” he said softly.
“Which part? Mentioning that he steals from the prince or sending the goat after him?”
“Both,” he replied. “But the first one worries me more.”
Ryn turned on her heel, stalked back into the house, Gareth still behind her. “Everyone knows he lines his pockets with the coin he should be sending to the castle.”
“Yes,” said Gareth, “but there is a difference between knowing a thing and threatening someone with that knowledge.”
She went to the kitchen and found several griddle cakes smoking ominously. She scraped them from the hot stone, her eyes watering from the sour smoke.
It was just the smoke.
And nothing else.
Gareth leaned against the wall, watching her work. He twirled the cooking spoon between his fingers. “We could do it, you know.”
“Do what?” She reached for the spoon, plucking it from his hand. She scooped a fresh dollop of batter onto the griddle. A stray droplet skittered across the hot stone.
“Sell this place.”
Ryn’s head jerked up. “What?”
Gareth shrugged. “It’s always been a possibility and you know that. Uncle’s debts mean we need the coin. And with the strange behavior of the bone houses—I don’t know. I would feel better starting over somewhere else.” His tone became gentler. “Ceri could apprentice to a baker. I could work for a merchant. And I’m sure graveyards near the cities could use a gravedigger.”
“We are not selling our home.
” The words jerked out of her, each one painful. “Mam lived here—she died here. Da loved this place. And—”
“And none of that matters right now.” Gareth took a deep breath. “I understand you don’t want to leave. But if we can’t feed ourselves come winter…”
“We’ll find a way.” She turned the cakes. Perfectly golden on one side.
“But what if we can’t—”
“I can.”
“You’re not an adult yet, and I’m a year younger than you.” He ran a hand through his hair, streaking the dark locks with flour. “You can’t legally run the graveyard for another year. I know people have been letting us, but Eynon’s a bad enemy to have. What if—”
Ryn slammed her hand against the wall. It hurt, but it was better than listening to him. She pushed past him, walked out of the kitchen and to her bedroom. There was a window cut into the wooden wall, and she looked through it.
Ceri was in the yard, stroking a brush along the goat’s back. She was talking to the animal, saying that it was wrong to chase strangers, even though she couldn’t truly blame her for wanting to chase Master Eynon.
Ryn watched her younger sister. Ceri was comfortable here—with her goat and her friends, in a home built by their great-grandfather. She slept beneath a quilt crafted by their mother and ate on a table hewn from a slab of wood that their father had cut from a nearby oak tree. This place wasn’t just their home—it was their history.
They weren’t leaving.
CHAPTER 4
YEARS AGO, RYN’S mother would tell her stories of how Colbren came to be.
The village was founded in the roots of the Annwvyn mountains before the Otherking fled the isles. In those early days, it was not uncommon to hear strange noises in the night. In the morning, the damp earth was marred by clawed footprints, and livestock would often have vanished, leaving only tufts of bloodied fur behind.
One day, a woman had ventured into the mountain forests with a basket of her finest wares. She carried golden churned butter, and fresh loaves of bread studded with dried fruits, and apples that tasted of autumn sunlight.
The Bone Houses Page 3