“Eynon’s orders,” said the man. He wasn’t much older than Ellis, perhaps only in his mid-twenties. He had a heavy jaw and he spoke with the kind of assurance that was not reassuring at all. “We’re going to sell the iron.”
Aderyn’s mouth worked. She seemed to be reaching for words. “You—can’t!”
“I assure you, we can,” said the man.
“If you do this—” She threw an arm out toward the mountains. “Cold iron. That’s our protection. If you take it away—”
“Protection against what?” The man laughed, and Aderyn visibly bristled. “Against those corpses you keep dragging to the village?”
“The bone houses are real!” Her hands fisted. “I’ve seen them. Hywel has seen them. Ask anyone who’s gone into the forest, ventured near the mountains—”
“That forest drives people mad,” said the man, with the tolerate arrogance of someone sure he was right. “It’s turned your mind—and it took your father. Thought you’d know enough to leave it be.”
She raised a hand as if to slap him. But the man reached out, caught her wrist. “Now, now, Aderyn. None of that. You don’t want to be brought into the courts for assaulting a man—you can’t afford it.”
Her teeth bared in a snarl of utter fury.
“Release her,” said Ellis. Where Aderyn’s anger burned hot, Ellis felt his temper like a chill running through his bones.
The man looked at him, seemingly aware of Ellis for the first time. “What?”
“Release her,” said Ellis again. “Or I will see you in the courts. And I can afford it.”
Or, he could until he paid Aderyn to take him into the mountains. But if she were arrested, she couldn’t be his guide.
The man let go of Aderyn’s arm. She jerked away.
“Come on,” said Ellis, tugging on her sleeve. Aderyn remained rooted in place.
He pulled a little more insistently, and she relented, taking several steps back, even as her gaze never left the man.
“Come on,” said Ellis again, and this time, Aderyn allowed him to pull her away.
She seemed to be moving on instinct alone; her feet knew the way. She took him to a merchant from whom he bought a new tent—and a crossbow, for good measure. It took too much coin, but he knew better than to buy a longbow with his shoulder. When the money had exchanged hands, Aderyn walked him back to the Red Mare. She still held her empty basket, and her gaze seemed unfocused, awash in thoughts that he could not fathom.
He took her gently by the elbow and her eyes snapped up to him. “One drink?” he said. “I hear this place makes a fine barley tea.”
Her mouth crooked up at the corner. “Tea? You want to drink tea at a tavern?”
He smiled back, but his was a little more restrained. “Yes,” he said simply.
Enid was serving the midday meal to a few older men. She beamed at Ellis, said, “Well, well, I see you’ve made a friend. Ryn, don’t you go scaring off this young man like you do all the others.”
They took a corner table, and Ellis said mildly, “Is she trying to find you a spouse?”
“No,” said Aderyn. “She just doesn’t want me scaring you off because then she’d have no one to rent that upstairs room.”
They sat in silence until the tea arrived, and Ellis took a sip. Aderyn’s attention seemed to be drifting again; her tea sat untouched on the table.
“I believe,” said Ellis, “it’s time you told me what exactly a bone house is.”
Aderyn looked at him. It was a flat look, the kind his teachers had given him when they were sure he should know an answer.
“It’s a dead person,” she said, taking a swig. “A risen corpse. You saw one. I shouldn’t have to explain it to you.”
He considered his words more carefully. “I mean, if there truly are risen dead wandering around, then why have I never heard of them?”
She fixed him with a look. “Tell me. When you go back to the city, and someone asks you about your journey—are you going to tell them that you were attacked by a dead bandit?”
He shook his head. “Of course not.”
“Why?”
“Because they’d think I was mad.” The words came out before he’d even considered them.
She nodded.
“Because most people don’t believe in magic,” said Aderyn flatly. “Even here, at the edge of the tamed lands, the younger ones have begun to think it’s all tales. And those who do believe keep their mouths shut, for fear of being called mad or liars. Except me. And a few others who don’t give a damn what the village thinks of us.”
Ellis frowned. “But… you’ve brought bodies to the smithy for burning. Is that not proof enough?”
“I suppose it’s easier to think that people have just been dragging corpses back to the village to scare people.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Where do they think you get the bodies?”
Her anger was all fire and sparks. “I suppose they think I dig them up from the graveyard. As if I would.” She closed her eyes, breathing hard through her nose.
“Did the bone houses always bother folk who go into the forest?” He considered. “Surely, when the mine was in working order, the miners would have noticed.”
“The mine closed twenty-five years ago,” she said. “The bone houses appeared… I don’t know. I was too young to remember. Fifteen years ago? Eighteen?”
“Eighteen years,” said Ellis. It seemed a long time to live in the presence of such creeping danger. Perhaps a person could grow used to it. “Does anyone know how it started?”
Aderyn laced her fingers on the table. “You want to hear the story?”
Ellis nodded.
CHAPTER 6
THE MOUNTAINS OF Annwvyn have never welcomed humans.
They began with fire. With hills that spewed ash and flame until they rose to jagged peaks. People rarely went into them—the mountains were little more than sharp-edged slate and wind-torn trees.
It was the king of the otherfolk, Arawn, who made his home there. Castell Sidi, a fortress of granite and enchantment, rose up beside a clear mountain lake, the Llyn Mawr. It is said he brought the magic with him—for he was immortal and lovely, and he could weave enchantments as easily as we spin wool. And where he went, other magical creatures followed.
There were the afanc, who lurked beneath the surface of rivers, watching for unwary travelers; the pwca, shape-changers and creatures of fortune that might bestow luck or bring a person to ruin; and, of course, the tylwyth teg—the immortals, who held revels that would last decades.
It was said Arawn rode with crimson-eyed hounds, and he would wreak terrible retribution on anyone who interrupted a hunt. But he was not a monster. Those he favored found themselves with gold and health and magical trinkets. For many years, all was well.
But those gifts drew attention.
There was a man called Gwydion of the house of Dôn. He had some talent for magic and mischief—and he loved both. When his brother yearned for a maiden the king favored, Gwydion began a war between the north and south kingdoms so that his brother had time enough to seize her. And that was the least of his crimes.
Gwydion slew kings, taunted enchantresses, and befriended enough poets that tales of his exploits became known throughout the isles.
And then he turned his gaze toward Annwvyn.
He had heard of the Otherking’s wealth, of the magic and monsters that dwelt within the mountains. But rather than frighten him, those tales made him greedy.
So he slipped into Annwvyn and stole from Arawn.
Perhaps the ensuing war might have been averted if Gwydion had offered some kind of apology. Most men would have cowered before the rage of the Otherking; he had those red-eyed hounds, as well as great knights, a cauldron said to raise the dead, and an undefeated champion.
Gwydion should have retreated, but he had spent years gathering power and an ego to match. He called the trees to fight for him, and in the ensuing chaos, he met Arawn�
�s champion.
If Gwydion had fought fairly, he would have perished. But he was a clever, wicked sort, and he did not fight.
Rather, he spoke the champion’s true name.
And broke his power.
“Wait, wait,” said Ellis, holding up his hand for silence. His elbow knocked into his cup. Ryn grabbed for it, saving the tea. “Sorry—but how does speaking a name defeat Arawn’s greatest champion?”
Ryn scowled and dragged the cup to the middle of the table. “Because names have power. Always have.”
“Enough power to defeat a champion? Why not simply lop his head off?”
“Creatures of magic,” she said, “are creatures of will. Their name is often… I don’t know. A part of that. If you could name them, if you could pin down exactly what they were, then you might be able to bend that will to your own.”
Ellis appeared unimpressed. “So if you were one of the otherfolk, I could say ‘Aderyn’ and you’d be powerless against me?”
She pointed a finger at him. “My name means ‘bird,’ so probably not. But if my name were Farmer, and I was a farmer, and my whole life was farming, then perhaps.”
“So it’s not just a name,” said Ellis. “You have to pin down their role, their identity.” He tilted his head in thought. “Maybe that’s why so many surnames have to do with occupations.”
“It wouldn’t work on humans, though,” said Ryn. “We’re too stubborn. And not magical enough.” She took a sip of her own tea, wetting her dry tongue. “Now do you want to hear the rest?”
Ellis placed a finger against his lips. “I’ll be silent as the grave.”
Furious and disgusted at the greed of men, King Arawn withdrew from Annwvyn. He took his court and his magic, and he sailed to where no human could follow. Castell Sidi was abandoned.
As the years passed, people stopped believing in magic. The rivers were dragged, and the afanc slain. The pwca starved, as the farmers who had once believed in luck no longer laid out offerings for them.
All that was left of magic were a few traditions: copper coins tossed over the prow of a boat, a sprig of rowan tucked into a pocket, and always the right stocking pulled on before the left. Such small magics were repeated until their original purposes were mostly forgotten.
But there were some who did not forget.
It’s said that perhaps twenty or so years ago, a man ventured into the mountains of Annwvyn. He had heard of great treasures left in the Otherking’s fortress. He knew something of magic, so he brought gifts for the last of the monsters: fresh kills to distract the afanc and small sweets to appease the pwca.
The man went to Castell Sidi, hoping to find treasure or jewels. But what he found was far more valuable: a cauldron crafted of the darkest iron, its edges stained with rust.
Most men would have scoffed at such a find, but this one recognized the worth of the cauldron, sensed the power wrought within the iron.
He took it and returned home.
When the man said the cauldron would make his fortune, people laughed at him.
The man was right.
Terribly, horribly right.
For that night, he boiled water within the cauldron. He took a cup of it to the graveyard; a young woman resided there, beneath blankets of soil and moss. He had courted her, but a sickness claimed her before he could. He dug up the grave, opened the coffin, and trickled the water into the dead woman’s mouth. In a heartbeat, her eyes flickered open. Her skin brightened and became new. She drew one breath, and then another, and when she could speak, she said the man’s name and smiled. She took his hand, and he pulled her from her grave.
The man brought the woman home, and her family recoiled with terror. She should have been dead—they knew that. But the man hastily explained: He had found the cauldron of rebirth within Annwvyn.
Word spread. People flocked to the man, begged him to save their lost loved ones. And he did—for a price. The man and the woman dwelt in wealth and happiness, and she bore him a child.
But word of this reached several kingdoms. When the princes learned of the cauldron, they imagined wars won before a single arrow was fired. No one would dare attack a kingdom if its armies could not fall.
At first, the cantref princes were kind to the man. They sent gifts for his child, sacks of gold, promises of land and titles. The man smiled and rejected them all.
When kindness did not achieve their ends, the princes began to bargain. It was simply too dangerous to have such a magic, they insisted. If the cauldron fell into the wrong hands, it would be a weapon. Surely the man wanted it to be protected?
The man said he could protect it.
And then the soldiers arrived.
For if they could not cajole or bargain for the cauldron, the princes would simply take it.
The village was put to flame. Many perished in the fires, including the man. His wife stole a horse, took their young son and the cauldron, and fled. There would be no safe place for them—at least, not in the tamed lands.
In desperation, she recalled her husband’s tales of how he had found Castell Sidi and used those memories to retrace his path. She took refuge in the old fortress, hoping that the forest and the mountains would keep her small family safe.
However, the cantref princes did not give up. They sent knights and soldiers into the mountains. Those who did not perish in the wilds found their death when they tried to cross the lake Llyn Mawr. After the knights and soldiers failed, the princes sent spies—and their corpses joined the knights’ and soldiers’ in the lake.
But one of the princes was shrewd. He did not send a knight, or a soldier, nor a spy.
He hired a thief. A man with quick fingers and an even quicker mind. The thief looked at those wilds like they were just another house to break into, and he made a plan. He covered himself in dirt and leaves, made a coat of animal pelts so that the beasts would let him pass. He crossed the wilds unseen and unheard, and when he approached Llyn Mawr, he did so with care.
He waited for twilight, when the evening could trick the eye, and then he pushed a log into the lake and swam alongside it.
When his bare feet touched the graveled shore, the thief remained low. There was someone walking outside the fortress. He notched an arrow, raised his bow.
The man was a thief—so he did what all thieves do. He took.
Only this time, what he took was a life.
The figure fell, arms flailing as if unsure what had happened, and it was then the thief realized that the form was too small to be the woman.
Dread filled his heart as he approached and saw what he had slain. It was a child.
The woman rushed from Castell Sidi. When she saw what had happened, she hit the thief over the head with a rock and carried her child inside.
The child was dead; she could save him.
She had never used the cauldron, but she knew how it was done—boiling water within its depths.
But the thief awoke. He followed the woman into the castle and saw the cauldron. The woman tried to stop him, but as he seized it, the hot iron scalded his hands and he recoiled with a snarl of pain.
The magical cauldron slipped from his burned fingers, falling to the stone floor.
Then it cracked.
Water spilled across the floor—the last water the cauldron would ever hold. The woman fell to her knees, trying to scoop the water into her hands, but it slipped through her fingers and through the cracks in the stone floor.
No one knows what became of her after that. Perhaps she wasted away inside the fortress, her body resting by that of her son. Perhaps she wandered away, to take refuge in a nearby village.
As for the thief—he ran. The magical water had soaked into the hem of his cloak and the soles of his boots. When he slipped into the lake, the power seeped into the Llyn Mawr—the lake that fed those creeks and rivers trickling toward Colbren. The once-contained magic began to bleed into the soil, trickled into the mountains, and crept into the forest creeks.<
br />
The next time night fell, the surface of the lake quivered. A bone-tipped hand emerged from its waters. Figures draped in tattered clothing and rusted armor dragged themselves ashore.
The things that crawled from the lake were sinew and rotting flesh. They were silent, with hollow eyes and bodies that caved in.
They were called bone houses.
CHAPTER 7
THE NEXT MORNING, an eviction letter was nailed to the door.
Ryn stared at it. It was written in the familiar hand that decried all official notices in Colbren. She recognized the flourishes without even having to see the signature. She tore the page free, felt its edges crumple in her hard grip.
For one terrible moment, she wanted to burn it. To see its embers float into the wind, to be scattered among the rocky soil. It would be as if this message were never delivered—and perhaps she could go on with her life. If she pretended all was right with the world, perhaps the world would do so as well.
Tucking the parchment into her tunic, Ryn strode into her home.
And it would remain her home if she had anything to say about it.
Even if it meant she had to lead some lordling into the mountains.
Gareth was sitting at the kitchen table. It had been carved from a fallen tree—each leg a branch, and she could still see the knotholes and whorls of the wood. He looked up, unsmiling. When he was a child, he’d laughed and grinned. Perhaps he had never been as boisterous as she, but he had regarded the world with merriment. It had drained away over the years.
He gave her a nod. “You saw?”
“The notice?” she replied. “Eynon broke his word again. Said we’d have two weeks.”
“Well, perhaps you shouldn’t have set the goat on him.”
A fair point, and she conceded it with a small nod. “You saw he’s also taking down the iron fence? Fallen kings, he’s a fool.”
“He’s a bastard, but he’s no fool,” replied Gareth. There was a weary acceptance in his voice, and it made Ryn bristle. “He’ll sell the iron, use the coin to stock up the village’s granaries. If the winter is a harsh one, it will save lives.”
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