He reached out to skim the long oaken table with his fingers. He could almost hear the clatter of tureens and cups, imagine the scent of braised meats and old wines. He closed his eyes; Castell Sidi might have been built of memories, rather than rocks.
“Where did you go?” he murmured.
A gray culver perched on a high-backed chair. Of course—the messenger birds would have been left behind to fend for themselves. It eyed him warily, unused to humans in its home.
The door to the king’s bedchambers did not open easily. Ellis frowned, and then on the second try he gave the latch a hard twist, lifting so that the hinges would not stick. It swung open slowly.
The rooms smelled of mildew. For all that they had once been Arawn’s chambers, now they served as a home to some animal that had made a nest of the bed. Dust lay heavy on the floor, and every step kicked up a fresh cloud.
If the cauldron of rebirth were anywhere in this fortress, Ellis figured it would be here—tucked away behind fortress walls and heavy doors, inside a castell that no one had visited for nearly two decades.
He looked toward the sweeping expanse of woolen blankets and goose-feather-stuffed pillows. One of them had been pierced through and feathers were scattered about.
He did not think a cauldron could be hidden under the bed, but he checked regardless. In the pillows, beneath the bed frame, and then in the wardrobes, and the desk. On hands and knees, he swept his fingers into every nook and cranny of the room.
There was a small side door that led to the queen’s bedchambers, and he slipped through it, angling himself sideways so as not to touch the cobwebs. The queen’s chambers were smaller, with soft rugs and elaborate curtains draped over the windows. He could see a row of love spoons, their handles intricate and lovely, hanging just above the bed. He pushed one curtain aside. Sunlight cascaded into the room.
He gazed out across the expanse of grass below. There were cottages and sheds; fortresses often had outlying buildings for tanneries or blacksmithing—anything that would disturb the castell’s occupants with smell or sound. Perhaps those small buildings once housed the legendary smiths who forged dragon-killing swords. And they’d be worth a search, as well.
When he ventured outside, he found Ryn. She sat beneath a twisted old tree, her gaze faraway.
“I see you’re looking hard,” he said drily, sitting down beside her.
Ryn gave him a look.
“I’m jesting,” he said, holding up both hands in surrender. “You’ve earned a rest.”
He settled beside her on the grass, moving a little stiffly. His shoulder ached and he wondered if tonight they would find a place to boil water for a bath. To soak in heated water sounded like bliss.
“I searched three towers,” she said. “One must have been the dungeons, for I found chains and… other instruments. Another was full of bridles and tack. And the last…” She held out her hand. A short dagger rested in her palm. The scabbard’s leather was buttery soft, and old runes were etched into the pommel. And while Ellis preferred pens to swords, even he could admit it was a lovely weapon.
“You found the armory?”
“I did,” she said, and dropped the dagger in his lap. “That won’t tax your shoulder. You should hold on to it, just in case.”
It was then that he noticed the longsword tucked beside her hip. It was less ornate than the dagger, but no less deadly. “It’s not my axe,” she said. “But it’s better than nothing.”
Of course she would prefer her axe—old and straightforward and familiar—to every weapon in Castell Sidi. The thought tugged at his mouth, and he hid his smile behind one hand. He’d never thought stubbornness could be an attractive trait in someone, but it was so very much a part of her.
She stretched out her legs, her gaze fixed on the lake. It was deceptively peaceful in the afternoon light, the water still and opaque. As if no monsters lurked beneath the surface.
A thought had been nagging at him, and he finally gave voice to it.
“What if we never find it?” he asked.
Ryn did not ask what he meant. Her fingers knotted in her lap. When she spoke, her voice was level. “The dead will continue to rise. We won’t run out of food here, not with the granary stores, but Colbren probably won’t survive. My family will probably run—Gareth’s a survivor. He’d take Ceri and go to one of the southern cities.”
“Could it spread?”
“The curse?” She shook her head. “I believe what Catrin said. Magic must have its limits—distance being one of them. The bone houses were not deterred by iron or gorse. The nearness of the magic in the forest must have kept them caged. If they wander too far, perhaps they simply go back to being dead.” She tipped her head, gazing at the lake. “Maybe this is what Arawn intended. Part of me wonders if he didn’t leave the cauldron on purpose, so that humans would doom themselves with it.”
There was quiet.
“That’s a tad morbid,” observed Ellis.
Her eyes moved, meeting his for the briefest of moments before returning to the lake. “Sorry, I’ve never been the chipper sort.”
“I rather like it.”
She turned the full force of her gaze upon him. He felt it like being pierced through: the sharpest, sweetest pain he could imagine. Her lips were slightly parted, reddened where she’d bitten them. The late-afternoon sunlight set fire to her hair, and in that moment, he thought her truly lovely. It did not matter that dirt stained the beds of her fingernails or that she smelled of lake and mud. She was here. In this impossible place with him. He wanted to touch the hollow of her throat, feel her heart beating beneath his fingertips. He wanted to push the hair behind her ears and kiss the freckles scattered across her shoulders. He wanted to tell her that he wouldn’t leave—not like the others had. If she wanted him, he would stay. She would never have to lose him, not like she’d lost so many others.
But he did none of those things.
He merely smiled and said, “Shall we see what food stores the Otherking left behind?”
The moment of tension snapped and Ryn shook her head—not in disagreement, but amusement. “All right,” she said. “We’ll find food, and then see if we can look for a place to sleep for the night. Preferably in part of the castell that still has working doors that we can lock. We’ll continue the search tomorrow, once we’re rested.”
He nodded and they rose together.
CHAPTER 27
HIS DREAMS TASTED of bitter smoke.
Ellis knew what smoke was supposed to smell like, knew the slight sweetness of cherrywood, the tang of oak, the heavy scent of ash. But this smoke, this was unnatural. It was heavy and damp and somehow Ellis knew, just knew, that he was smelling bodies as they burned.
And then he was on the lakeshore, the water lit up by the fire of evening sunlight. Someone rose from the water—not the afanc, but a man. He could not make out the stranger’s features, but the sight sent a bolt of panic down his spine.
Look at me. Ellis could hear someone say the words, but he felt strangely disconnected. It was a woman’s voice, and one he had only ever heard in the moments between waking and dreaming. Ellis, look at me.
Pain lanced through him. It centered beneath his collarbone, in his left shoulder. His fingers grasped uselessly about, trying to find a way to make it stop—
His fingers looked odd. He held them up to the sunlight, and the light poured between the finger bones.
He was dead. He was nothing but bone.
And then he realized that he was the one burning.
Ellis came to. He was sweating hard, his shirt soaked through. It was all too hot and close, and he found himself desperately trying to untangle himself, trying to escape the blankets and the memory of the dream. He tried to draw in a steady breath. It had been years since a nightmare had woken him.
They’d found barracks in a northern tower. The circular room was packed with cots that were little more than rope and blankets; it was a place for guards to cat
ch a few hours’ sleep. But after days of resting on roots and rocks, even the meager mattress felt wonderful. Soft moonlight gleamed through the slots in the stone and a gentle breeze tugged at his hair. Ellis sat up, rubbing at his face. As if he might push the dream away.
He stole a glance at Ryn. She was unmoving beneath her own blankets and her red-brown hair spilled across the mattress. Asleep and safe. Ellis released a shaky breath. It was a foolish fear, he knew no dream could touch him, but he was glad to see her resting.
There was a cup of cold feverfew tea beside his cot, and he gulped the last of it down. For all that it tasted of bitter flowers, it did help with the pain.
Ellis slipped out of the bed. The stone floors were cold on his bare feet, but it grounded him, made him feel more awake. He strode to the door and pulled it open. Sleep felt like a distant hope. Perhaps he could walk for a bit—and in doing so, tire himself out.
The halls of Castell Sidi were made for nights. The palest sliver of moonlight came through the cut stone overhead, reflected by shining glass and mirrors. It was a place of starlight and old magics—not meant for people like him.
The softest footfall made him look up. Ryn stood in the hall, wearing only her long undershirt and leggings. Her face was drawn, and it took Ellis a moment to see the sword in her hand. “It’s all right,” said Ellis quietly. “It was… it was nothing.”
Ryn stepped forward, her free hand reaching for him. She laid her palm on his chest, just beneath his left collarbone. Her touch was cool against his feverish skin, and it felt nice. “Are you in pain?”
He tried to smile for her. But she deserved more than the lies he was used to offering casual acquaintances. “Always,” he said. “But that isn’t what woke me.”
Her hand didn’t move, and Ellis found himself relaxing into the touch. “Tell me,” said Ryn, quiet but somehow still commanding.
If Ellis weren’t so exhausted, he might have felt embarrassment. Because what kind of person lost his nerve because of a dream? But Ryn didn’t move, didn’t speak, just waited. “It was a nightmare,” admitted Ellis.
She appeared to consider him. Her hand dropped away, and he felt its loss at once. “Come with me.”
“Where?”
“I have something to show you,” she said.
He fell into step beside her. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” They walked through the great hall, and Ellis found his gaze drawn to that statue of Arawn. Its features were cast in shadow, its eyes fixed on something far away.
Ryn took a side door he had not wandered into; this must have been part of the fortress that she had explored. A spiral stairway was cut into the stone, and he found himself descending, the walls close and ancient, and he felt as if they might be leaving the world behind entirely. The darkness swallowed them up, and then he heard the snap and hiss of flint catching on firesteel. One of the torches flared to life, the light dancing across Ryn’s face. She was smiling, and in the firelight, she looked like she belonged here. One of the tylwyth teg, untouched by time and amused by some mischief.
They walked deeper still, and when the room opened up, Ellis realized they’d entered a cellar. The ceiling was just a little too low, and he had to hunch so as not to feel the touch of cobwebs. Barrels lined the walls, along with jars filled with unidentifiable liquids. Some were muddy and others clear, the glass kept clean by some magic. Ryn went to one of the shelves, blew the dust from it, and reached inside.
It was a bottle.
“When the Otherking took his court and his magic away from the isles, he did not bring his wine stores,” she said, and he suddenly understood the edge to her smile.
“That is either going to be atrocious or delicious,” he said. “Or perhaps drive us both mad.” He’d heard stories of humans drinking and eating the food of the otherfolk—and it never ended well.
“It’s doing no one any good collecting dust down here.” Ryn grinned at him. “Come on. Want to climb to the tallest part of a tower?”
They found a circular stairway and Ryn took the lead—one hand on an old rope for balance and the other holding the bottle of wine. Ellis glanced downward once—only once—before he swept his gaze upward. The tower narrowed as they ascended, and he found himself a little dizzy when they came out onto a ledge.
The view during the day must have been wondrous; it would look out upon the mountains and beyond, stretching nearly to the sea. In the darkness, Ellis could barely make out the shapes of trees and hills. He thought he saw the silhouette of a building—perhaps a storehouse or a stable. They sat with their legs over the edge, and Ellis could feel the place where her leg touched his. Just a small brush of sensation, but it made his stomach jolt.
Ryn unsealed the bottle with a small knife, the wax coming away in small strips. She held the bottle under her nose, sniffed, and a wheeze caught in her throat.
“Not a good omen,” said Ellis.
Ryn threw him a look. “I am going to taste this. Even if it does turn out to be only vinegar, I’m going to be able to say I have drunk the Otherking’s wines in his fortress. This will be a story to tell my grandchildren.”
“Far be it from me to deter you from a dream realized,” said Ellis drily. “I’ll try to catch you if you stagger about.”
She put the bottle to her lips. A small shudder ran through her, and for a moment Ellis worried that the wine would indeed drive her mad. But then she threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, you have to try this.”
The bottle was crusted with dust. He took it with a bit of trepidation.
The liquid was thick in his mouth. He swallowed hastily, but even in its absence, the wine lingered on his tongue. It tasted of burnt honey and orange rinds. Warmth bloomed in his chest.
“Seems to be all right,” said Ryn. “I wouldn’t drink too much of that, though, not if we want to find the cauldron tomorrow.”
He gave the wine back. “Are you really so certain we’ll find it?”
She kicked her dangling legs back and forth, as if she needed the movement. “We’ve made it this far, haven’t we?”
“Yes, but—”
“No,” she said, breaking into his words. “We have made it this far. We ventured into an encampment of the risen dead, through the mines, made it into the mountains, past an afanc, and now we’re drinking wine in a fortress that no one has lived in for nearly a century. Well, if we’re not counting the woman who caused the curse.” Her fingers tightened on the bottle’s neck. “We’ve done the impossible thrice over. We’re going to manage it one more time.”
Her certainty was more intoxicating than the wine.
“And then what comes after?” he said.
She gave a little shrug. “I go back. See if Eynon has managed to pry the house from my family—or if Gareth finally cracked and bashed him over the head with his accounts ledger.” Some of her bravado slid away, leaving her voice softer. “I… I don’t know. We’ll bury our dead, I suppose. Or at least our memories of them.” She took another swig from the bottle, then cleared her throat. “What about you, mapmaker? Going to continue your search for your parents? Or maybe map these mountains? Go back to Caer Aberhen?”
He hesitated.
She’d answered honestly. He would do the same. “I’m not sure. Still planning on charging me for this little journey?”
“Maybe,” she replied. “Depends on what kind of valuables I find here. Maybe I could just take a few bottles of this wine and buy Eynon off with that.”
Ellis took the bottle, drank deeply, and handed it back. He wasn’t one for drink, but he hoped it would give him courage. “Can you miss something before it’s gone?”
Ryn clinked her nail against the bottle. “I think I’m going to miss this, once it’s gone.”
He shook his head. “I mean—something else. A place, or a person.”
The silence that followed was full of unsaid things. He wondered if he’d blundered into painful territory, if perhaps he shouldn�
��t have said anything at all. But then she said, “I think so. The anticipation of the loss hurts nearly as much as the loss itself. You find yourself trying to hold on to every detail, because you’ll never have them again.”
“Aderyn,” he began, then corrected himself. “Ryn. I must say, I won’t miss this journey. The sleeping on the ground, the rain, the rotting corpses, the constant fear that something might leap out of the night and murder us both.” Well, this was going well, part of him thought, but he forced himself on. “But even with the monsters and the dead bodies about, part of me wishes this wouldn’t end. I mean, I want it to end. The bone houses and all. But when we go back—I will miss—well, what I’m trying to say is that—I will miss you.”
Silence fell thickly between them, and for one terrible moment Ellis considered simply throwing himself off that ledge. It might prove a less painful end.
And then Ryn started laughing. It was just a snort, a stifled little sound that dissolved into giggles.
“This is wonderful,” she said, once her mirth was under control. “I mean—it wasn’t quite as spectacular as the time the peat cutter’s son tried to court me by taking me on a tour of the bog and one of my boots got stuck and I had to leave it behind.”
“Well,” said Ellis, a little tartly, “I’m glad I rate above the bog and your lost boot.”
“Do all your confessions begin with that bit about rotting corpses?”
“Well, I tried bringing the last girl flowers, but she preferred knights to mapmakers.”
She laughed again, but this time it was quieter. “Ellis. Ellis.” He liked how she said his name, the syllables soft in her mouth. “I’m a disaster. You know I am. I’m prickly. I prefer dead people to living ones. I’m only good at digging graves and surviving in a forest. My brother thinks I’ve abandoned the family, and my sister loves me, but then again she loves a dead goat, so her standards are a bit off. Oh, and the last family member that irritated me? I buried him in an unmarked grave.”
“And I’m a mapmaker who gets lost quite often,” said Ellis. “I have no family to speak of, I couldn’t survive two days in the wilds, and I’ll probably never be able to lift anything heavier than a tankard with my left arm.”
The Bone Houses Page 21