“Why?” he said. “You’re not doing this merely for coin.”
Her gaze swept over him—and it felt like that night they’d first met, when she had watched him impassively, picking apart every small detail. “Nor are you,” she said. “For all that you claim to be a mapmaker, there’s another reason you wish to enter Annwvyn.”
He could have denied it—but there was no point. “Yes,” he said. “I do have my reasons. What are yours?”
Before Aderyn could answer, Ceridwen barreled out of the house. “All right, give her to me,” she said, taking the last chicken from Aderyn. The creature glanced about, as if glad to be held upright again. Ceridwen kept her hands carefully around its wings as she returned indoors.
Aderyn watched her go—and her face was softer than Ellis had ever seen it.
Oh.
So this was why she’d go into the mountains. He should have realized—but then again, he didn’t know what it was like to have a family. He couldn’t guess to what lengths he would go to protect them.
Aderyn said, “I want to make sure nothing like last night happens ever again.” Her throat moved in a little swallow. “I’m going to end this.”
There was a moment’s quiet.
Ellis opened his mouth, faltered, and had to try a second time. “You—you think you can destroy the bone houses?”
“Yes.”
For a moment, his mind simply would not cooperate. He was exhausted, likely in shock, and here was a young woman claiming she was going to stop the monsters. If he could strip the situation down to angles and distances, perhaps he could consider it rationally. “Castell Sidi,” he said. “The cauldron. That’s what began all of this—if the stories are to be believed.”
“I think we’ve established the stories are true,” said Aderyn, with a grim little smile. “All of this began when the cauldron of rebirth was cracked. It must have made the magic go awry—I thought, if I could destroy the cauldron altogether, the magic would vanish.
“As for getting to Castell Sidi… well. The mine leads into the mountains. If I can get through that, I could cut a week from the journey.”
“The collapsed mine?”
“One shaft collapsed,” she answered. “Not the whole thing.”
“So you are going to go into a forest teeming with the risen dead, venture through a mine, and journey into the mountains of Annwvyn to find the cauldron of rebirth.”
“Yes.”
“You do realize how mad that sounds, right?”
“They attacked my home,” said Aderyn. Her hands fisted at her sides. “If the dead beyond the forest start to rise, nowhere will be safe. And if you’re still eager to get yourself into the mountains… then at least I’ll have enough coin to buy Eynon off.”
“And if we both die in the forest?”
“Maybe I’ll still find the cauldron.” She gave him the barest of smiles. “Death doesn’t seem to slow people down much these days.”
Or perhaps they would each become one of those mindless creatures, weapons in hand, happy to attack a village.
Ellis knew what he should do—he should pack his things, bid these people farewell, and return to Caer Aberhen. He could draft a report and give it to the prince, ask that the nobles send reinforcements, and hope that they did not come too late.
But if last night’s attack was anything to judge by, the bone houses would lay siege to Colbren again and again, and the chances of getting a letter to the prince in time were slim. And that was if the prince would even believe there were armies of the risen dead attacking a remote village.
But even if he sent soldiers, what could they do? Defend Colbren, of course. But none of them had studied maps of the forest like he had—none had spent nights with their fingers tracing inked edges, eyes taking in the lines and empty spaces. “One of my maps might help us. The one that led me to Colbren—”
“The one that got you lost?”
“Yes. It contains the very edges of the mountains—mostly pictures of wild beasts. But it does contain a few sketches of the mine.” He returned her thin-lipped smile with his own. “It might prove useful to you. Even if I do not accompany you all the way to Castell Sidi, you may have it. Along with whatever coin I have.”
He had few illusions about finding Castell Sidi—he was not on this journey to recover lost magic nor to find monsters.
He was going for himself. But if he could help these people, all the better.
Aderyn gave him a little bow of her head—a silent acceptance.
The decision was made. For better or for worse, he would be going into a forest teeming with monsters.
Footsteps clattered, and then Ceridwen appeared a third time—arms empty. “All right,” she said. “Now for the goat.”
Aderyn made a pained sound. “Ceri, the goat is—”
“Dead, I know.” Ceridwen crossed her arms. “I’m not a fool. But nor am I going to just leave her to rot in the backyard.”
“Tomorrow,” said Aderyn, “you should take her to the graveyard. There’s still a half-ready grave for Mistress Turner. Use that. But it’s getting dark, Ceri. You should go inside.”
Ceridwen’s face tightened, and she walked stiffly toward the backyard.
Aderyn heaved a sigh, pressing her hand to her eyes. “Damn goat,” she murmured, as if to herself. She strode after her sister.
Ellis waited, unsure whether to follow. Then he shook his head and trailed after.
The goat had been laid out on the ground. Ceridwen crouched beside it, eyes downcast. She touched a hand to the creature’s head, murmured a few quiet words. She looked at the goat with a weary sadness, but there was no raw grief.
Ellis remembered that she had lost her parents—and seen her uncle’s corpse the previous night. Perhaps one could become used to loss. Or perhaps the grief went so deep that he could not see it.
“You seem a bit uneasy,” Aderyn said, glancing toward him. “You’ve not spent much time around dead things, have you?”
He shook his head. “People passed away at Caer Aberhen, of course,” he said. “But I didn’t see them. I’ve lost no one close to me. Even dead animals were the servants’ responsibilities.” He knelt beside the goat. Not knowing what else to do, he picked a small wildflower and laid it upon the goat’s neck. His fingers brushed the soft fur—once, accidentally. The second time, it was deliberate. He smoothed one of the stray tufts of hair out of the creature’s closed eyes.
Aderyn rose to her feet, brushing dirt from her knees. “All right. We’ve all said our farewells to the goat. We’ll go inside—Ceri, you should get ready for bed—”
She never did finish that sentence.
Because at that moment, the goat lifted its head.
Ellis cried out. He reached for Aderyn, pulling her behind him as he lurched away. She made her own startled sound, and then she nearly tripped over a root. They both staggered, clinging to each other.
Ceridwen fell over sideways, gaping at the creature.
The goat looked at them.
Ellis choked back a curse. “By all the fallen kings. What is—”
“Ceri, get over here,” Aderyn choked out. “Ceri, come on!”
The goat shifted, struggling to its feet. For one moment, Ellis wondered if perhaps it had been asleep this whole time. But that couldn’t be—it had a gaping wound in its side. It had died. They had all heard it being killed.
It was dead.
And yet it wasn’t.
“Goat?” said Ceridwen, and her voice quavered.
Ellis remained still, barely daring to breathe. His chest burned, but he feared the moment they moved, the creature would attack.
The goat blinked. Then it laid its head gently on Ceridwen’s leg, gazing up at her with something like adoration.
“What is this?” said Ellis, barely moving his lips.
“It’s a goat,” said Aderyn.
“It’s dead.” He felt foolish pointing out the obvious but someone had to say
it.
“I can see that.”
There was a heartbeat of silence. Then the goat took a step forward, and then another. Ellis fumbled for his crossbow, but he couldn’t reach it soon enough. The goat was in front of them, lowering its head and—
It nudged Aderyn’s thigh gently.
As if out of habit, Aderyn reached down and scratched the creature between the horns.
Ellis stood there, crossbow in hand, frozen by the sheer impossibility of the situation. “Don’t shoot her,” said Ceridwen, lunging to her feet. She put her arms around the goat and held on.
“The goat is dead,” he said.
“That has been well established,” said Aderyn.
“The goat is dead and you’re both petting it.”
“What else are we supposed to do?” she said helplessly.
“Kill it!”
“It’s already dead!” Her gaze fell to the creature. “And it’s—not attacking. It’s… she’s acting like she always does.”
He threw up his hands. His left shoulder gave a twinge and he lowered that arm at once. “Just when I thought things could not be any stranger. A goat comes back to life. I thought—do animals do this?”
“No.” She gave a sharp shake of her head. “Otherwise, Colbren would be overrun by dead gophers and mice. This… this has never happened before. Perhaps the soldiers carried some of the magic with them. I don’t know.”
Aderyn’s fingers smoothed the goat’s tufts of fur behind one horn. Ellis’s hand twitched; he was not sure if he wanted to pet the creature or run from it. He felt a kind of twisted fascination with the animal, even as it repulsed him. The goat closed its eyes in pleasure and leaned into Aderyn.
Well, at least it did not seem to mean them any harm. “Something’s changed,” said Aderyn quietly. “The lack of iron, perhaps.”
“What do you mean?” asked Ellis.
She gestured at the goat. “This doesn’t happen. It just doesn’t. Animals don’t become bone houses—and bone houses don’t rise beyond the forest. Do you know what this means? Because I don’t.”
Ceridwen rested her cheek against the goat’s side and said, “It means Gareth will never be able to sell her now.”
Ryn tied the dead goat to a fence post.
It was all she could think to do—what was a person supposed to do with an undead goat?
“We’ll deal with it later,” said Ryn wearily. That was becoming a common phrase of hers. “Right now, you’re going to bed.”
Ceri gave her a flat look. “Truly?”
“Yes. You’re a child and you still need some rest.”
“But what if the bone houses—”
“Come on,” said Ryn, giving her nudge toward the bedroom. “I’ll tuck you in, and then you’re staying in bed.”
Ceri’s room was small and cluttered with drying herbs and jars of preserves. She must have taken them from the pantry; the air smelled of mint and rosemary.
Working as a gravedigger, Ryn had seen many people after they’d witnessed a death. Sometimes they became attached to a chair or a table that had belonged to the deceased. Sometimes they turned to a friend. And some just wrapped their arms around themselves. Ceri reached for an old quilt. It had been stitched together by their mother and given to Ceri when she was born. “What are you going to do?” Ceri asked.
In that moment, Ryn felt as if she might be able to take on all of Annwvyn. For her sister, for her brother, for their home. She would do anything to keep this, all of this.
She put her hand over Ceri’s cold fingers and squeezed. “What I must,” she said simply, dropping a kiss on Ceri’s hair. “Now, get some rest.”
Ceri nodded, pulling the quilt up to her chin. Ryn rose, walked to the door, and gave her sister one last smile before pulling it shut behind her. Ellis was outside, and she didn’t want to keep him waiting.
She packed quickly—mostly food, and a change of clothes. A few tools: firesteel and a small knife, a canteen, and twine to hold her hair in a braid.
And half of a wooden love spoon. She slipped her fingers into her trouser pocket, felt the familiar edges.
She could not say good-bye. It would be too hard; she moved like a ghost through the house, finally heading toward the front door.
Before she reached it, Gareth strode out of the pantry into view. He still had a nail tucked behind one ear and a hammer in his left hand. He looked exhausted and dirty, but no less sharp for it.
His gaze swept over her: the traveler’s cloak upon her shoulders, the pack at her feet, and the axe strapped to her belt.
“You going out to hunt them?” he asked.
There was something about siblings—a language that was half memory and half glance. Jests and jibes. They were a tangle of love and resentment, and despite their differences, Ryn knew he would defend her to the death.
But he could not come with her.
As a child, he, too, had loved stories of afanc and pwca, of bargains and magic, of corpses that could never quite die. But when she had ventured into that forest, he had kept to the outskirts. He remained with their mother, learning how to use her ledger and balance their coin. He loved the stories—but only as stories. He had never wished to reach out and touch them.
When she did not answer, the silence seemed to speak for her.
“No,” said Gareth heavily. “That pack is far too heavy for a single night.” He let the hammer slip from his fingers and he pressed a hand to his eyes. “Fallen kings, Ryn. I remember when we were young, and you ventured into the forest on your own. You were always fearless. And I have never forgotten how frightening that could be.” He ground the heel of one hand against his eyes. “You’re going to do this, aren’t you? Regardless of what I say.”
She gave the smallest of shrugs. He knew her well enough to see it as a yes.
“Then come back,” said Gareth. There was a strain in his voice she’d only ever heard once—after Mam died. Where is she? Gareth had asked. His grief had been caged behind decorum and the tasks that surrounded death. He’d lost himself in numbers and paper, but in that moment his voice had cracked. Where is she?
He would sound the same if Ryn did not come back.
Ryn would come back. One way or another. Heart beating or no, she would come back. Of that, she was sure.
He stepped forward and pulled her into a tight embrace. He smelled of dust and books and home—and she held on to that scent for just a moment.
“Protect the village,” she said. “Make sure I have something to come back to. And if Eynon tries to send you to a workhouse, brain him.”
She felt the hoarse laugh jerk through him. “Oh. That will be no trouble at all, I’m sure.”
“Morwenna will help dispose of the body,” she said, with her own small smile.
She stepped out of her brother’s arms, gave him one last half smile, and reached down to pick up her pack. “Tell Ceri to save some of those rowanberry preserves for me.”
She walked out the front door.
Ellis crouched a few paces away, his crossbow balanced on his knee. When he heard her, he rose and offered her a small smile. “Ready?”
“Almost.”
Ryn went to the fence post. The dead-not-dead goat laid on the ground, absentmindedly chewing on some of the tall grasses. Ryn knelt beside her and untied the rope. Ellis made a small sound behind her, but she ignored him.
The goat was not trying to kill them. Perhaps it was some lingering loyalty or her animal nature that kept her safe. Either way, she did not deserve to be tied up when the bone houses returned. She should at least have the opportunity to run.
The goat rose and nudged Ryn’s hand, seeking treats. Ryn gave her a little pat.
“Now,” she said. “I’m ready.”
CHAPTER 15
RYN LED THEM into the forest—beneath the bows of birch and rowan, over the moss and ferns, with only moonlight and memory to guide her. Her previous expeditions to the forest had been kept to the fringes,
but now her path took her to the heart of the trees, farther than she had come in years.
They lit no torch, for fear of the bone houses finding them. Ryn worried over the sounds of their passage, of panting breath and twigs beneath boots. Only the dead goat moved silently—and no matter how many times Ryn threw a look over her shoulder, the animal continued to follow.
So goats were as loyal in death as they were in life. And Ryn did not have the heart to take her axe to her. The creature seemed harmless enough.
She welcomed the lassitude that crept into her body; exhaustion could be as potent as drink. And so long as she was exhausted, fear could not find a foothold within her. The undergrowth rustled with unseen creatures; wind made the trees shiver; a river flowed nearby, unseen but never unheard. Ellis paused a few times to take a knife to a tree, marking their passage. She wondered if he were trying to track their way in his own mind, mapping their passage with thought before he could do so with ink and parchment.
A few hours before dawn, they saw a bone house.
The grind of metal against bone caught her ears, and she threw her arm out, catching Ellis in the chest. She pressed him against a tree, their backs to the trunk so that she did not have worry about attacks from all sides.
The whisper of movement made every muscle in her body tense. The memories of the battle rose up to greet her: Hywel’s blood cascading across the dirt path, the startled shouts, the smash of armored fists against unprepared doors.
It was a single figure. It moved with jerky little steps, limping like an old man. But it bore the armor of years past and a heavy cudgel rested in its spidery fingers.
She reached for her axe, but Ellis’s hand fell on her arm. “If there are more,” he whispered, his breath touching her ear. “If there are too many…” He trailed off, but she understood.
There was nowhere to hide in the wilds. There were no houses to fortify, no places in which they could take refuge. If there were more bone houses, if there were too many, they would overwhelm Ryn and Ellis before they could even make it to the mine.
But if she let them go, they could attack more people.
A memory seized her: the half-rotted corpse of Uncle, his teeth bared in a skull’s smile as he reached for Ceri.
The Bone Houses Page 10