The Bone Houses

by Emily Lloyd-Jones

  The story of the cauldron never said what had happened to the thief. Perhaps—perhaps. She looked at him and wished for the first time that he could speak, if only to utter his name.

  “I have to be getting back,” she said. “But thank you for this.”

  The bone house nodded. He held out a hand, and she recoiled. The dead man’s hand dropped, and he retreated a few steps as if apologetic.

  He had not harmed her. She had no reason to draw away, not when he had done all he could to aid her. “Sorry,” she said. “I just—I’m not used to…”

  Her voice drifted.

  Silently, the bone house took a step toward her. His brown-edged fingers were raised, catching in the moonlight. He moved slowly, as if trying not to startle a wild animal.

  Ryn’s heart slammed against her ribs, but this time she did not pull away.

  The bone house touched a lock of her hair. He was gentle, so soft she barely felt the contact. His hand shook and then she felt the whisper of bone against her cheek, down her chin. The touch was cold and dry, but she held still.

  The dead man simply looked at her. For a few moments, all she could hear was the lapping of the lake against the shale shore and her own breathing.

  The bone house’s hand fell back to his side. He retreated, watching her all the while, and before she could utter another word, he had vanished into the hole.

  She stood there, waiting to see if he would reappear.

  He didn’t.

  She waited another minute, then returned to the other side herself. Giddiness made her steps light; she had done it. She had done it when no one else could—she’d found Castell Sidi.

  They were going to do this. For the first time, she truly believed it. She and Ellis were going to finish this, end the bone houses, and return home as heroes.

  When she reemerged from the small tunnel, she glanced about to see if the bone house would be waiting. “Hello?” she called.

  There was no answer, of course. And no sign of the dead man.

  Even so, she knew what was owed. “Thank you,” she said, into the empty night.

  Returning took less time; she was more certain of her footing, and when she crawled onto the ledge, she found herself alone. She hastened back to their small camp.

  The fire was all but out; she rekindled it with a few dry roots, blowing over the embers until sparks flew into the air. Ellis was still, his chest rising and falling evenly. The bone goat rested beside him, but her eyes were open. She lifted her head in silent greeting.

  The feverfew tea had a vaguely greenish color. She wasn’t sure if it would help, but anything would be better than leaving him like this. She reached down, resting her hand on his arm. “Ellis?”

  It took him a moment to wake up. He blinked several times, firelight in his eyes, before his gaze settled on her.

  “Why,” he said, “do you look as though you’ve rolled in a mud puddle?”

  Oh. She touched her cheek and her fingers came away brown.

  She handed him the warm tea. “Drink this.”

  As he drank, she turned back to her pack. She could store what was left of the feverfew, and if it worked, perhaps Ellis would be well enough to leave in the morning.

  That was when she saw the thing resting on her pack. It was perhaps the length of her middle finger, dark and smooth.

  It had been placed there, like an offering.

  She frowned, her fingers scrabbling for the object.

  Half of a wooden love spoon.

  Hands trembling, she traced the edge of the carving. Whorls of familiar wood slid against her thumb.

  She reached into her pocket.

  The broken handle was carved in an intricate woven pattern; flowers were etched into the wood.

  With shaking hands, she pressed the two wooden halves together.

  They fit perfectly.

  Ryn lurched to her feet. She spun around, glancing every which way. Her heart thundered in her ears and she felt as if she might fly apart.

  Fallen kings. Fallen kings.

  She wanted to scream, to rend the forest with the sound of her voice, to hear her own grief howled to the sky.

  “What is it?” Ellis sounded croaky, but he made an effort to sit up. “What did you find?”

  But her lips only formed two words. She gave them voice, even when she knew they would go unanswered.

  “My father,” she said.

  CHAPTER 25

  SHE DID NOT mean to fall asleep, but she did. She awoke with something soft against her temple. A shoulder. She opened her eyes and blinked into the dawn light. One hand rested on her axe, the other on Ellis’s arm. The fire was little more than smoking ash. The night seemed unreal, something that must have happened in a dream. But the stems of feverfew were sprinkled across the ground.

  Ellis sat up, scrubbing a hand across his face. He drew in a breath—at first tentatively, then a little deeper.

  “How is it?” she asked.

  He probed at his collarbone, fingertips skimming along bare skin, pushing his shirt collar aside. There was the faint scar—white and dimpled. “Better,” he finally said. “The feverfew—it helped. I’ve always used other herbs for the pain, but I’ll have to remember that one.”

  “It probably grows nearby,” she said. “That bone house didn’t go far—I’ll see if I can find more.”

  His lips moved in a slight smile. “Planning to keep me in a state of slightly drugged good cheer?”

  “Planning to keep you,” she said, “regardless of what state you’re in.”

  The words slipped out—and she didn’t know if it was relief or exhaustion that gave her tongue such freedom.

  She wasn’t sure when she’d begun to regard him as hers. Her friend, her ally, and one of those few people she wanted to keep safe. And if she liked the way his dark hair fell across his eyes or how his voice rasped when he said her name—well. That was beside the point.

  He cleared his throat. “All right,” he said. “We should go.”

  They packed up their small camp; dried meat and a handful of berries made for a quick if not wholly satisfying breakfast. And when they were finished, Ryn led them deeper into the mountains. They left the bone goat resting in a patch of sunlight.

  The foliage around them shifted from lush to rugged. Lichen clung to bare rocks; the river thinned into a narrow creek; the trees were bare, stripped by wind and some of them only clinging to the mountainside with their thick roots. The grasses were yellow, and the wind had a sharp chill. Winter was closing its teeth around the mountains.

  They did not speak. Ryn was lost in her own thoughts and Ellis would not disturb her. The tale she had told sounded like something from a legend—a dead man appearing to her in the moonlight, a climb up a mountain to a forgotten passage, and the lake beyond. But he could not doubt her; for one thing, she’d never lied to him. For another, she showed him the twin halves of the wooden spoon. “Do you think he’ll come back?” was his one question.

  Ryn had glanced away and not replied.

  She kept her pace slow, but Ellis still breathed hard. The path wound upward, the slope steep. In some places, he found himself reaching for rocks as handholds, using them to pull himself along. The journey took the better part of an hour—which was his fault, Ellis knew.

  “I would apologize for slowing us down,” he rasped, “but I fear you’d push me off this cliff.”

  “Your fears are not unfounded.” She flashed her teeth in a wolf’s smile. “You apologize too much.”

  He gave a rueful shake of his head, hair falling into his eyes. He pushed it back. “I hope the waters of the Llyn Mawr are good for bathing. I think I need one.”

  “You do.”

  “Flatterer.”

  “You look like a corpse,” she told him. “And you smell like a dead goat.”

  He laughed. “Ryn,” he said, shaking his head. He said her name for the sheer joy of it—because he could. “Ryn.”

  The passage th
rough the mountain was small. He had to angle himself so his shoulders wouldn’t get stuck, one after the other. He moved with little grace, shuffling along on forearms and knees, teeth gritted against the discomfort. Ryn had gone ahead, calling out encouragements. Even so, it was slow going. By the time he emerged from the tunnel, he was covered in dirt and sweat. His head swam and he leaned on his knees for a few heartbeats to catch his breath.

  When he lifted his head, he blinked several times.

  Daylight glittered on the surface of a lake. It was nestled in the heart of the mountains, surrounded by jagged rocks on either side.

  They stood on the edges of Llyn Mawr.

  And beyond: Castell Sidi.

  Waves lapped gently at the broken shale shore and weak autumn sunlight touched Ryn’s face. The remnants of old docks still clung to the shore. The shattered prow of a boat rested among the rocks, its surface soft with moss. A black bird sat upon it, gazing at the humans.

  It was only when she saw the ruin of the docks that a sense of loss struck Ryn. This had once been a place of trade and travel. Otherfolk—and perhaps even humans—had crossed Llyn Mawr to reach the castell. In their absence, time had waged its war on the place, leaving only the scattered remains.

  “It’s beautiful,” said Ellis quietly.

  Ryn nodded. “It is.”

  “Are you getting in first, or shall I?” This time his voice was laden with good humor.

  She snorted. “Yes, of course. Once I’ve drowned, you can float my bloated body across.”

  Ellis grimaced. “For once in this trip, I’d like a plan that doesn’t involve bodies.”

  “You shouldn’t have befriended a gravedigger, then,” said Ryn. “Should’ve taken up with a baker or a blacksmith.”

  “I shudder to think what a baker might have done with the bone houses.”

  Ryn walked toward the dock. “Come on. Let’s see if any of these boats are usable.”

  There were several small vessels strewn alongside the lake. Slate clattered beneath her feet as Ryn strode around them, trying to find a boat that wouldn’t sink the moment she pushed it into the water. The first two were rotted through, wood so soft it crumbled beneath her fingers. The third had a long crack through its underbelly. The fourth had some promise.

  It was a smaller boat, the kind likely used by couples to take a leisurely row around the lake. Ryn grasped the prow and yanked, dragging it up and out of the earth. It took a fair amount of pebbles and dirt with it, scattering detritus along the shore as she hauled it into the water.

  It did not sink. She pressed down, waiting to see if water would seep into the belly. A little swirled around the bottom, but nothing overly worrying.

  Ellis dragged two oars from a different boat. They were beautifully carved: etched with a leaf-and-dragon pattern, the wood lacquered against rot.

  “I wonder how long it’s been since anyone used these,” said Ryn, slotting the oars into place.

  “Since the thief came here to steal the cauldron, I assume,” said Ellis. He gave the boat a dubious look, but he stepped into it. A little water sloshed over the edge, but the boat didn’t sink.

  Ryn sat on one of the smooth planks and began to row. It took a few strokes, but she soon fell into a steady rhythm, and they were gliding away from the bank.

  With her back to Castell Sidi, it was almost easy to pretend they were out on a lake for fun. The water lapped at the boat in a way that she found soothing, and the autumn sunlight warmed her bare forearms. With no current to drag at them, the boat churned a path through the water with ease.

  Ellis skimmed his fingers across the water, dragging gentle furrows—and then his arm jerked up. His gaze sharpened and his mouth pressed tight.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Water dripped from Ellis’s hand; he cradled it against his chest. “I—I don’t know. I touched something. A fish, perhaps.”

  Ryn lifted the oars out of the water and stilled. The boat bobbed in place. In the swirling water, Ryn saw something move.

  “If there are fish,” she said, “perhaps we can think of sup—”

  The words fragmented.

  At first, she thought it must be a shadow or a cloud reflected in the water. Something too dark and too large to be truly in the water. Sunlight caught on its form. Its body was segmented, and scales glittered down its sides. It had the flat form of a lizard—but it was far too large, and its feet were webbed. Its long tail propelled it seamlessly through the lake, so smoothly that barely a ripple followed in its wake.

  In all the stories of the bone houses, there was always mention of soldiers dying in Llyn Mawr. But the stories never mentioned how they’d died.

  Now she understood.

  “Do not move.” Ryn spoke out of the corner of her mouth.

  Her axe sat at the bottom of the boat because what use was there for an axe on water? Now she cursed herself for sliding into complacency. She’d thought they were safe in the daylight, but there were magical creatures not bound to the night.

  One of the many stories her mother had told her was of a creature who lived in a lake. When the creature raged, the lake flooded nearby farms and villages. For many years, the villagers lived in terror of the creature—until a blacksmith proposed a plan. He would forge chains strong enough to hold the monster, and they could drag it away. Oxen were brought to the village, and the blacksmith spent days laboring in his smithy. The villagers decided they would lure the creature from the lake with a maiden. She sang so sweetly that even the birds would fall silent.

  On one fateful morning, the blacksmith brought his chains to the shore of the lake. The oxen shifted uneasily beneath their yoke, and the maiden walked into the water. The hem of her gown grew damp, but she did not shy away. She opened her mouth and began to sing a joyful song.

  Nothing happened.

  The villagers began to fret, fearing their plan would not work, when the maiden decided to try something else. She sang a mournful melody, and all those who listened wept.

  Something emerged from the water, and the villagers cringed. All but the maiden. She sang and sang until the lake creature heaved itself to the lakeshore and fell asleep beside her.

  The villagers lashed the creature with the chains, and the oxen strained. The creature awoke, thrashing and furious, and in its struggles, it nearly dragged the oxen into the lake. But the animals were too strong, and the creature was dragged free of its home.

  The blacksmith and a few other men accompanied the oxen, keeping a watchful eye as they bore the monster away. Once they were well away from the village, the men released the creature.

  It vanished into the wilds, to find a new home.

  When she was young, Ryn had wondered why the blacksmith had not forged a blade rather than chains. To kill, rather than confine.

  But as she looked into the depths of the Llyn Mawr, she understood.

  “Afanc,” breathed Ryn.

  This creature was untouched by time and blades. It was a remnant of another age, and she could not kill it. Not even if she’d wanted to.

  The creature drifted beneath them, so large it might as well have been a shadow of a cloud. Even so, Ryn considered leaping from the boat like one of those heroes of legend. But for one thing—she was only a passable swimmer. And for another—she was sure that if knights and soldiers hadn’t managed to kill this afanc, she had no chance at all. But maybe she could delay it long enough for Ellis to row to shore.

  Her gaze met Ellis’s, and one of those moments passed between them: that silent language that she’d only ever shared with her family. Ellis’s eyes narrowed and he gave a sharp shake of his head.

  Ellis reached into Ryn’s pack. Ryn twitched—an aborted little movement as she held in the desire to grab at him. What was he doing?

  He withdrew a jar of rowanberry preserves.

  Then he pulled his arm back, drew his brows together, and flung the jar as hard as he could. It flew high, tumbling end over end, sunlight
shimmering along the glass. It fell into the water with a soft plop.

  The afanc lunged. With one powerful sweep of its tail, it propelled itself through the water toward the fallen jar and away from the boat. The monster vanished into the depths, in pursuit of the unknown thing that had dropped into its territory.

  “Row,” said Ellis. His jaw was tight. “Fallen kings, row.”

  There was little point in conserving movement now—all that mattered was getting to the shore before that thing realized its prey was escaping. Lake water churned beneath the oars, and her arms burned. An ache made itself known in her lower back, but she ignored it. She didn’t look; she didn’t dare. She kept her eyes on her own knees, focusing on the motion of her shoulders. Her arms were strong from years of digging, hands worn with calluses, and the boat lurched forward with every stroke.

  “Keep going,” said Ellis quietly, the way one might chant a prayer. “Keep going, keep—”

  “What,” said Ryn through gritted teeth, “do”—downward stroke—“you think”—the oars lifted from the water—“I am”—and then another stroke—“doing.”

  The talk was almost a comfort—familiarity in a situation that felt so very other. Ryn rowed and rowed, felt the water moving beneath her, and as their speed picked up, her heart did as well. Perhaps they’d make it. They’d have to make it. They would make it—

  Her left oar plunged into the water and hit something solid. For a moment, Ryn thought they’d hit land. But the prow of the boat should have struck the shore first, not an oar. And certainly not only one oar. She pulled upward, but the oar would not move. It was as if it’d become stuck in something.

  Or been grabbed by something.

  Ryn’s gaze yanked to her side, and she saw the something.

  This close to the surface, she could appreciate the creature’s beauty. It had small scales that glittered in the sunlight like small opals. Its teeth were as sharp as daggers, angled inward. Meant for ripping and tearing. And its eyes—its eyes were the palest gold, with the sharp pupil of a cat.

  The left oar was yanked from Ryn’s hand. She heard Ellis cry out, and then a claw settled on the side of the boat, tipping it precariously. Ryn brought the axe down, but it was too late.