She placed the basket on the mossy ground and waited until she heard the bushes rustle. Then the woman spoke to the empty air.
If you let us be, she said, we will bring offerings again.
She turned and left the forest, never glancing behind. But the next day, the basket was placed on the woman’s doorstep, emptied of its contents.
The disappearances of livestock ceased after that. There were no more strange tracks or noises, and Colbren was left alone. And every autumn, one of the farmers would leave a basket of their finest foods in the woods.
Even after magic fled the rest of the isles, Colbren still prospered.
When a vein of copper was discovered in the nearby mountains, the village flourished. Eynon, a distant relative of the cantref prince, came to reside in Colbren, and he took control of the mine. It was a source of wealth for all—sons of farmers became miners, and homes that were once crafted of wood were built in stone. Sentinels guarded the village at night, for fear of bandits who might try to rob the stores of copper.
It was said that in these fruitful times, the people of Colbren grew forgetful. With full bellies and heavy purses, they did not think to send the yearly offerings into the forest. After all, magic had gone. Why should gifts be left for the forest?
But then one of the mine shafts collapsed.
Eighteen men were buried, and for fear of losing more, the mine was closed down. The wealth that had once streamed into the village slowed to a trickle. Fields yielded fewer crops; livestock wandered away with alarming frequency; the roads that led to the village fell into disrepair.
Ryn remembered the touch of her mother’s fingers weaving through her hair, steady and sure, twining her unruly locks into a braided crown. It’s just a story, her uncle would say. A morality tale to scare the children. He was their mother’s brother, and had come to live with them after their father vanished. He had been a man who had only grown more brittle with every year. He rarely left his rocking chair but for the promise of drink or a fresh grilled cake. And he always scoffed at the tales.
The autumn after her father had vanished, Ryn took a few late-harvest apples. She did not have a basket, so she bundled the fruit into a worn cloth, clumsily knotting it closed. She walked into the forest, where the shadows were deep and the frosts lingered. She left the small offering on a fallen log.
The next week, Ryn found a young goat in their yard. It was a scrappy little thing, chewing on one of her uncle’s old boots. Ryn hastily took the goat out of sight, tied her to a fence post, and went into the village to see if anyone had lost a goat.
But no one claimed it. Ceri took to the goat as if she were a favorite new toy, braiding grasses around her neck and taking naps between her hooves.
“We are not naming it,” said her uncle, when he discovered Ceri’s fondness for the animal. “It is livestock, not a pet. And if we have a harsh winter, it’ll be the first thing we eat.”
“Hush,” Ryn’s mother had told him, and she allowed Ceri to keep the goat.
Every autumn, Ryn left apples in the forest.
Her uncle complained of the missing food and her brother looked on in quiet disapproval, but Ryn ignored them both.
They might have forgotten the old magic, but she had not.
And perhaps, if she left enough gifts, the forest might give her father back.
In the dawn light, Ryn slipped from her room.
Her bare feet were silent on the floor, and moved unerringly even in the dimness. A sack in one hand and her boots in the other, Ryn carefully nudged the door shut behind her.
The chill morning air was clotted with fog and Ryn breathed in the familiar smell. The cold was bracing but pleasant, and she smiled as she pulled on her boots. A heavy wool cloak was wrapped around her shoulders, and she strode away from the house. The goat was nowhere to be seen, Ryn reflected, and she wondered vaguely if the animal was off stealing turnips from a neighbor’s garden.
She loved this time of the morning, when everything was lush and quiet. The damp grasses brushed her fingertips as she veered left and cut through a field.
She retreated to the forest the way some people took refuge in chapels. It was soothing in a way she could not wholly describe: The stillness and the vibrant greens, the sense of life all around her—hidden, yet still thriving. The call of birds high up in the trees, the earth freshly tilled by moles and gophers, the soft mosses.
This was the truth of the forest—it was life and death in equal measure. Brimming with acorns and berries, yet beneath the fallen leaves were the bodies of animals that had not survived.
“You took your time getting here.”
Ryn cursed, startled, then glared at the speaker.
“Sorry.” Ceri stood a short distance away, leaning against an oak. Her hair was braided back, her face freshly scrubbed. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Why did you follow me?” Ryn crossed her arms.
Ceri held up a basket. “You’re going to look for berries, are you not? Because you don’t want to sell the house.”
She should have expected this; for all that Ceridwen played at being the innocent younger sister, that was all it was—an act. She was a sharp-eyed little thing, and she concealed her shrewdness behind her sweet smiles. “You shouldn’t listen at windows,” Ryn told her.
“You and Gareth never tell me anything.” Ceri was unabashed. “Now come on. I brought a basket—and I’d like to be home before noon.”
“All right,” she said. “Come on. But if Gareth asks, you followed me without my say-so.”
“That’s true.” Ceri pushed away from the oak and whistled. A small white animal came lumbering toward them.
The goat. “If she eats all our berries—” said Ryn, with a groan.
The goat lowered her head, allowing Ceri to scratch between her horns. “She’s not so bad,” said Ceri. “Just a little protective. Sort of bristly. I don’t know who she reminds me of.”
Ryn did not dignify that with a response.
“What are we looking for?” asked Ceri. The goat was pulling oak leaves from a low branch, chewing with the slow contentedness of an animal that knew it would never go hungry.
“There are blackberries on the western edge of the creek,” Ryn pushed aside a branch and walked ahead.
Ceri gave a gentle tug on the goat’s horn and she tottered after them, still eating everything she could grab along the way. “I’m not sure we can make enough preserves to pay off Uncle’s debts,” said Ceri. “Or were you hoping to find nightshade?”
Ryn let out a startled laugh. “Ceridwen!”
“No one would miss Master Eynon,” she said. “A few poisonous berries slipped into a jar of blackberry preserves…”
“I don’t understand how someone with such a sweet face can come up with such terrible ideas.”
“That’s why no one would suspect me.” Ceri grinned, but then her smile faded. “All right, all right. So we need something less drastic than murder.”
“Preferably.”
A lone vine stretched out, blocking their access to the berries, its leaves like extended fingers, and Ryn pulled a knife from her pocket and cut it away before the thorns could snag. The bushes smelled wonderful—the sweetness of the berries and the green of the forest warmed by morning sunlight. The goat began to tear into the blackberry leaves, uncaring about the brambles.
“It’s the bone houses that are the problem,” said Ceri. She looked at the forest all around. “You know most young people don’t believe in them.”
“We do,” said Ryn.
Ceri gave a little shrug. “I remember Mam talking about them—and you’ve said you’ve seen them. But most people—they think they’re stories, Ryn.”
“Hywel doesn’t,” said Ryn. “And even though the graveyard is protected, the Turners thought there was enough truth to the stories to burn their dead rather than bury them. Enid keeps planting gorse about the Red Mare.”
“Right, and they’re
all old,” said Ceri.
“Everyone is old compared to you,” said Ryn, a corner of her mouth lifting. “What does this have to do with selling the house?”
“Because our lives depend on people dying.” Ceri dropped a handful of blackberries into her basket; her fingers were stained crimson. “And old people tend to die more quickly than young ones. But they won’t be paying for your services, not so long as they think the dead will rise.”
“So I’m a gravedigger being put out of business by the risen dead. Which means we can’t pay off Uncle’s gambling debts.” Ryn’s fingers slipped and a thorn snagged on her knuckle. She popped the finger into her mouth, the coppery taste of blood on her tongue. “We’ll have to find another way.”
Gareth’s words still rang in her mind: Debts cancel each other out. If she could prove to Eynon that her father had not fled from his job, if she could find proof that he had indeed perished in the mine—
She closed her eyes. Her other hand slipped into her pocket, caressing the worn surface of a wooden love spoon. Broken in two, edges still a little sharp. Half for her, and half for her father. A silent promise to return.
The living had a tendency to make promises they could not keep.
CHAPTER 5
ELLIS SPENT THE night recovering at the Red Mare.
He felt as if he’d been hit by a hammer on the left side of his body; his muscles clenched and spasmed, spiking pains through his ribs, down his spine, across his lower back. This was the problem with pain, he thought. It refused to be quieted. It devoured, the way flame consumed wood. It took and it took, and all he could do was lie on a mattress of straw, torn between boredom and fear. Fear that this time the injury would not let up. That this time the pain would finally conquer him.
He chewed willow bark, the sinew caught between his back teeth. It helped, but it only kept the agony at bay for a few hours. When he felt well enough, he worked on preliminary sketches of his maps. And then he would close his eyes and wait. For the throbbing to pass, for his control over his own body to reassert itself.
Finally, the next morning, he walked down the stairs, each step a little soft and careful, until he stood in the tavern proper. The tables were planks of wood set atop wine barrels, and the floor was uneven, but the food smelled good. Despite the early hour, there was a bearded man asleep in a corner, slumped against a barrel.
Enid beamed at Ellis. “You’re feeling better, then?” she asked, sliding a plate of sausages to him. He nodded in answer and thanks, and picked up a fork. As he ate, he listened to the conversation two tables over.
“—chickens gone missing,” a woman was saying. “It’s either thieves or a fox that’s gotten too brazen.”
“Or maybe Eynon’s decided to start collecting fowl instead of rent.”
There was a snort, and then someone else said, “He’s taken more iron. Can’t be right—not the way he’s pulling it off. If it were free to take—”
“Then you’d already have pinched it, Rhys.” A laugh. “It’s cantref property. ’Course he can take it. And if anyone makes a fuss, they’ll have to face him in the courts. No one’s going to protest.”
“I heard he was going to sell it,” said the woman. “Use it to shore up the granaries for winter.”
“Well, we’ll never see any of that food, so eat up, girl. Before there’s frost on the ground.”
Ellis listened and ate—all the while keeping his gaze down. He could feel the weight of eyes upon him, and while it wasn’t an unfamiliar sensation, it also wasn’t comfortable.
“Who’s that?” This time the voice was lowered to a whisper.
“Traveler,” came another murmur.
“Trader?”
“Too young.”
“Trapper?”
“Look at his boots—that stitching. Only worn by nobles. He must be a relative of Eynon.”
People could never place him: Half of them saw his clothes and manners and thought he must be a wayward noble; some thought he was a thief who’d stolen his clothes. Either way, merchants always overcharged him.
Perhaps the most galling thing—Ellis could not contradict any of them.
He was all of those things and none of them at all.
When he was finished with his meal, Ellis went out to take his first true look at Colbren.
Mapmaking was about details. Specifically, what details to include and what to leave out. Ellis remembered his first lesson—how his teacher had said mapmaking was a profession of responsibility. Wars could be won or lost with a map; travelers could lose their way; entire villages could vanish.
On most maps, Colbren existed as a dot beside the forest. Half the time, it was not even labeled—and he could see how such an oversight had affected the town. Several homes were abandoned. Clothes were mended and worn soft with age, and several of the youths traipsed about with muddy knees and no shoes.
As for the mountains, they appeared on paper—but never as more than a few rough sketches. They were a place no mapmaker had managed to capture—and as he walked, he drew a leather-bound journal from his pack and began to sketch. A rough grid of the town appeared on the parchment, and his gaze flicked back and forth between the village before him and the one taking form on the paper.
A bleat drew his attention.
A goat stood beside a cart, half an apple wedged in its mouth. It stared flatly at a villager, who appeared to be gesticulating wildly at the apple. The goat’s eyes never left the villager as it crunched the treat.
“She’s sorry,” said a girl, who was trying to drag the goat by the horns. “Come on. Let’s go find food elsewhere.” She glanced over her shoulder and said to the villager, “I’ll pay for the apple tomorrow, I promise!”
Ellis watched the girl go, then he strode up to the villager and offered her a coin. “For the girl’s apple,” he said. She blinked, then pocketed the coin.
“You don’t have to do that,” said a voice behind him. Aderyn stood there; her hair was bound in a braid and her face was scrubbed clean—and this time, she carried a basketful of berries rather than an axe. But she appeared no less formidable.
“Good morning, Aderyn.”
She slid the basket of berries onto the villager’s cart.
The villager held up a blackberry between thumb and forefinger. “From the forest?” she asked.
Aderyn nodded. “We have too many for preserves—I thought you might be interested in a few.”
The villager named a sum. It was lower than what Ellis might have expected. Aderyn took her empty basket and began to walk away. “You needn’t have paid for my sister’s apple,” Aderyn said. “I can do that.”
“I didn’t mind,” he said. He fell into step beside her, unsure where she was going, but glad for a moment’s conversation. “And you seemed fine with taking my coin before.”
“That was for services rendered,” she said.
“Do you know of a good cloth merchant?” he asked. “I need to buy a new tent.”
She narrowed her eyes. “First the apple, now a tent. If you think you can bribe your way into Colbren’s good graces… well, you’re probably right.”
That made him laugh.
“If you remember,” he said, “my tent was destroyed helping carry a dead man to the village.”
She seemed to relent, but only a little. “You’ll want Dafyd. He’s the only one who won’t overcharge you. Come on.” She tucked the basket into the crook of her arm and her step quickened. “How are you finding the Red Mare?”
“Comfortable,” he replied. “Thank you.”
His gaze swept west toward the mountains; he could just make out peaks through the low-hanging clouds. “Do you know of any villagers who might be willing to take me into the mountains? It would be a week’s journey, I think.”
“Into the mountains,” she repeated. “Into the—you do remember, right?” She waved her arms vaguely. “Dead man tried to drag you in that direction?”
A shiver ran through
him. But he managed to keep his voice steady when he answered, “I do remember, yes.”
She pointed at the mountains. “Annwvyn,” she said. “The land of the otherfolk. The birthplace of monsters, of magic, and where Arawn used to rule.”
“If it’s so dangerous, why did you venture near the forest the night we met?” he asked.
“I grew up here,” she said. “I saw my first bone house when I was six.”
“Well,” he said. “It looks as if I’ve found my guide.”
“No.” Aderyn gave a sharp shake of her head. “I have a job. And a family. I can’t go blundering about in the woods, not even for—” Her protests died away. “How much would you be willing to pay?”
He named a sum.
She doubled it.
He winced. “I—I am not sure I could pay that.”
Aderyn’s gaze swept deliberately over his finely embroidered cloak, then back to his face. Her mouth was set in a disbelieving line.
He didn’t know how to tell her that while he might have grown up among the nobles, he wasn’t one of them. Finally, he shook his head. “I can pay you half now, and half when we return.” It would take some doing, but he’d manage it. And if he did map those mountains, he could sell that knowledge for a pretty sum.
“It’s a deal,” she said, smiling. “We can’t go right away, as I’ll need to prepare. But…”
Her voice drifted at the same moment her attention did. Ellis watched as her gaze swept to the side, hooked on something beyond him.
A man stood beside the iron fence. He wore the heavy leathers of someone used to working with metals, and he bore tools that flashed in the sunlight. He was pounding a chisel into the place where one bar met another, and with a yank, he pulled it free.
He was dismantling it.
Ellis felt a whisper of air as Aderyn ran past him, toward the fence. Her face was utterly pale, making her freckles stand out in stark contrast. She reached for the iron pole, trying to yank it from the man’s hand. “What are you doing?”
The Bone Houses Page 4