The Bone Houses

by Emily Lloyd-Jones

  “That isn’t you,” she said, and she took his hand. “You’re—you’re good, Ellis. You’re kind and you’re good and I’m—not.”

  “Well, I like you that way.”

  That seemed to startle her into silence.

  “I like you prickly and disastrous, with grave dirt beneath your nails and forest leaves caught in your hair,” he said. “You refuse to be anything other than what you are. And I only wish I could be so brave.”

  She looked down. “I’m not brave.”

  “Ryn—”

  “If I were brave,” she said, “I would have done this days ago.”

  And before he could finish whatever he’d wanted to say, her mouth met his. His words crumbled, and he found himself holding very still.

  She kissed him like she did everything—with a determined ferocity. She took and he gave willingly, feeling the warmth of her body pressed against him. His hands swept over her, touching where he could. The corded muscle of her arms. The silken sweep of her hair. The breadth of her shoulders, and the ridges of her spine, flexing as she shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. This wasn’t the ideal place for kissing; he was dimly aware of the height, and the knowledge that one wrong move and they’d both tumble from the fortress. A soft noise escaped him—longing turned into sound.

  In that moment, he did not care if they ever made it back to Colbren. They could live here, in this otherworldly fortress, with the wine cellar and their dead goat. If that dead goat managed to get across the lake without being eaten by an afanc.

  His thoughts were fragmenting, running wild as he felt Ryn’s hands skim down his chest. Fallen kings, all he wanted to do was lose himself in that touch. To want and be wanted in return was a heady knowledge, and he felt almost giddy with it. All the people in the world that she might have kissed, and she’d chosen him.

  Even so, he broke away. His breath came in little gasps, and he could see a flush blooming high on her cheeks. “Was that… all right?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Part of him wanted to lean in again, to feel the softness of her mouth, but he forced himself to remain still. “But we’re—on a ledge. And as much as I’m enjoying this, I’d prefer not to fall to my death.”

  “Understandable.” Even so, he kissed her a second time—a brief flash of heat and sweetness—before he stood. “I’m going to return to the barracks before the wine reaches my blood.” He gave a rueful shake of his head. “Perhaps now I’ll get some true sleep.”

  Ryn nodded. “I’ll be down soon.” Her gaze drifted to the horizon, and her fingers tightened on the bottle’s neck. “I just—need a moment.”

  He wondered if half the reason she’d come up there was for a good vantage point. Perhaps she hoped to catch a glimpse of her father. “I understand.”

  She gave him a short, honest smile that made his stomach turn over. Then he turned and began walking down the circular stairs. His head was spinning, and with every beat of his heart, elation surged through him. She had kissed him. She had kissed him. He touched his mouth with one hand. He could scarcely believe his own memories. It felt like some kind of fever dream, and he half expected to wake up.

  It was a scant distance to the barracks, but he was so caught up, he did not realize that he’d walked a little too far. Too many corridors, too many doors. He pressed a hand to his face, trying to rub away his rueful little smile. He was acting like some lovestruck fool, which he’d never thought—

  He did not see the hands that seized him. They were cold and slick with lake water, nails raking across his shoulder. A startled shout burst from him, and he whirled, trying to wrench himself free.

  The moonlight cast this bone house in shades of palest gray, even the etched emblems on its armor and the hollow places where teeth had fallen out. The remaining teeth were stubby, worn smooth by a lifetime of chewing hard food.

  A soldier. Likely in the lake, dragged to the depths by the afanc. They drowned—and they hadn’t even been allowed the dignity of death. Rather, they’d found themselves forced to rise, again and again, to carry out the bidding of some curse.

  For the first time, Ellis felt a swell of sympathy for the bone houses.

  He thought of the old woman in the nightgown, those dancing by the fire, the musician—and all those forgotten dead who could not rest. Ryn told him she’d been able to speak to one. Perhaps he could, as well.

  “I’m—I’m trying to end the curse!”

  The bone house straightened. It regarded him with its hollow eye sockets, head tilted as if in question.

  What might you say, if you could speak?

  The bone house that held Ellis did not move. It merely held him in place. Every instinct screamed at him to struggle, to thrash his way to safety, but perhaps if he could make it understand—

  The bone house’s hand moved.

  Ellis forced himself to stay still. The thin fingers touched his chest, moved to his shoulder the way a spider might ascend a web. His heartbeat thundered.

  The bone house leaned close. Lake water slipped down its jaw, dampening Ellis’s shirt.

  The creature drew in a breath. He wasn’t sure how; it had neither nose nor lips. But he could hear the inhalation as it snagged on the broken teeth.

  It was smelling him. The way a hound might follow a scent through the forest.

  Then it drew back, and its mouth opened in a silent howl.

  CHAPTER 28

  RYN SAT ON the ledge, legs still dangling, until the clouds blotted out the moon.

  She’d wanted a few moments to herself, to gather her own thoughts before she faced Ellis again. Her mind was a tangle, and a strange sort of calm had descended upon her. She did not know what would happen when they found the cauldron or returned to Colbren, but she knew one thing: She wouldn’t face it alone.

  It was a thought that both warmed her—and made fear squirm in her gut. To love someone was to face the possibility of losing them, and she feared another loss could shatter her.

  There was another reason she had remained here; in the bright moonlight, she had been able to see the grounds. To watch for any moving creature—living or not. Part of her yearned to see a dead man in a gray traveler’s cloak, to catch a glimpse of him again.

  She saw nothing.

  And when the clouds crossed the moon, Ryn rose to her feet. There was little point in keeping watch, not when she couldn’t see a thing. Her hand found the smooth stone wall, and she made her way by touch and memory. The stairs were simple to traverse—the rope led her spiraling downward into the castell, and she remembered the way back to the barracks.

  The air was cool against her skin and she shivered. It would be a pleasure to sink beneath the woolen blankets of her cot, even if they did smell of damp lanolin and dust.

  She crossed the threshold to the barracks and blinked.

  It was not Ellis that awaited her. It was a goat.

  None other than the bone goat was nuzzling her pack, searching for something to eat.

  For a heartbeat, Ryn simply gaped at the creature. She looked terrible—she’d begun to bloat and she smelled of fresh rot. But she stood there, as lively as any dead creature could be.

  “You made it,” said Ryn. “You swam across the lake, you daft creature. And the afanc didn’t eat you?” She wrinkled her nose. “Then again, I can’t blame it. You’re not exactly appetizing.”

  The goat gazed at her.

  “I can’t believe you,” she said. She reached out to touch the creature, then thought better of it. “You followed us all this way. You’re the most loyal, the most foolish, the—”

  Her voice trailed into silence.

  The goat had followed them here. She had slipped into the castell unseen and unheard, and found her humans. And if she could do it, then—

  “Ellis?”

  There was no answer, and fear twisted at her stomach. She held her borrowed sword a little tighter. At once, the fortress seemed too quiet and too still. It brought to mind how cats
froze just before they pounced on prey. She did not know precisely what she feared—whether it was magic or bone houses or something monstrous—but she knew something was wrong.

  She moved quickly but with care, keeping her footfalls soft. She did not call out again but listened instead. She heard the quiet click as the bone goat followed, hooves against the stones; she heard the rustle of wind overhead and a flutter of wings; and—there.

  She heard the distant clatter of metal on metal, and a muffled voice.

  Ryn adjusted her grip on her sheathed sword and quickened her steps to a jog. She wished she had taken more from the armory than just blades; she wore little more than her nightclothes. She thought longingly of chain mail and breastplates, but there was no time to armor herself. She would have to fight in her loose shirt with a borrowed sword.

  She heard another sound—the scuffle of feet and a door on old hinges. Ryn’s lips drew back in a silent challenge and she rushed ahead. She gathered her anger around herself, stoked it to a burning fire in her chest, used it as fuel for each stride. If she could be angry, perhaps she could burn all the fear from herself.

  She rounded a corner and saw them.

  They were armored like those who had attacked Colbren. At least five of them.

  And two had Ellis caught between them.

  He struggled, snarling as one of the bone houses kept its skeletal fingers pressed across his mouth. Biting did him no good.

  The thought of losing him to those dead creatures gave Ryn’s anger a keener edge—and something to attack. A wordless cry burst from her lips and she threw herself at the bone houses. Without hesitating, she spun around. Her sword was raised high, and she brought it down with all the strength in her body. It was a shattering blow; she had felled small trees with her axe.

  The first bone house fell to one knee, and its arm came up. Her sword struck an iron shield and sparks flickered.

  She caught a glimpse of the bone house’s face—it wore a helmet and its face was frozen in the rictus of a skull’s grin. The bone house shoved forward, forcing Ryn to retreat several steps. Now she was on the defensive, trying to parry a blow with her own sword. She had no shield—and far less experience with a sword than any of these dead soldiers.

  The cantref princes sent their best knights into the mountains.

  And now they had no flesh she could cut, no arteries to sever. Death had only served to make them more dangerous.

  Ryn heard Ellis call her name, but she did not reply. All her focus was on the bone house. It pushed again, harder, and she felt her feet sliding back, giving ground. Jaw clenched, muscles straining, she placed her palm on the flat of the blade, taking the weight on both her arms. A droplet of sweat rolled down her neck, catching in her shirt. Her muscles shook with the exertion.

  The bone houses dragged Ellis through the door and into the courtyard. One of his hands seized the frame, fingers straining, but then he was jerked free. He vanished into the darkness.

  With a curse, Ryn kicked out. Her heel caught the side of the bone house’s knee and it bent the wrong way. Something cracked and the creature’s mouth yawned wide in a silent scream. With only one functioning leg, the bone house fell to its knees. Ryn took its head off with a single blow. She moved on to the next one, sword slicing through the air as another bone house crowded forward.

  She counted time not by moments but by how many blows were exchanged. She felt recklessly invincible. She caught a sword pommel on her shoulder, and a throbbing pain began in her back. She ignored it, parrying blow after blow, striking back, fighting with such ferocity that it did not matter that she was outnumbered and outclassed. These knights and soldiers had been trained to survive, to take weapons on shields and armor, to duck out of the way of attacks. Ryn had no such qualms; she threw herself into the battle, snarling and spitting like a wild animal.

  Some instinct had taken over, and all she knew was that she had to get to Ellis.

  Death had taken too much from her—she wouldn’t let it take him.

  She slammed her sword through another bone house, cutting a path through ribs and armor, until the blade’s tip skittered along the stone wall. Sparks lit the darkness. The bone house was pinned—but so was her weapon. The dead man’s hand lifted, grasping the sword’s blade, and it pulled itself forward. Iron dragged along its rib cage as the bone house struggled closer, one hand reaching for Ryn’s throat.

  Ryn twisted the sword and threw her weight against the hilt. The sword became a lever, and iron crunched against bone. Vertebrae broke, fell to the floor—and the bone house went with them. Its legs were still, even as its arms grasped for her.

  Ryn kicked it aside and rushed into the night.

  Her fear drew her body tight and sharpened every sense to the point that it felt as if the world had slowed around her—the weight of the sword in her hand, the sight of moonlight on grass, and the tang of winter in the air. Every part of her strained forward. The courtyard was empty, but she heard the sounds of a struggle. She turned one corner so swiftly that she had to throw up a hand to keep from hitting a wall, palm slapping against stone.

  The castell seemed larger in the dark, towering over her—around her. She tried to remember what was before her, which direction the lake lay in. If the bone houses were trying to give Ellis to the afanc, she’d need to reach them first. Or perhaps they would merely try to drown him, to make him into one of them. There had to be a reason; the dead were dead, but they weren’t mindless.

  Another bone house lurched out of the dark; she slammed the pommel of her sword into its jaw. The bone came away, and the dead man staggered in surprise. Ryn took its head off with a single swing, barely losing her stride.

  She rounded another corner and saw them. The bone houses bore Ellis not toward the lake—but to the rows of cottages. Confusion pierced her anger and fear, but it was only a moment’s pause. She threw herself into a sprint.

  Something crashed into her with bone-jostling force. She hit the ground and all the breath left her in a rush. She lay there, gasping, fingers groping uselessly for her fallen weapon.

  A bone house straddled her; it wore no armor, only rags, and it moved with the languid grace of a snake. A scout, she thought. Or one of the spies the cantref princes sent. It had long silver hair and bones the color of lake silt. It pinned her arm, holding her in place as it leaned down. Bone whispered along her cheek as it smelled her, drawing a long breath over her skin.

  Revulsion made her kick out, but her legs were useless—flailing against the air. This bone house seemed far more adept with weaponless combat, and Ryn didn’t have the element of surprise.

  The bone house drew back, seemingly satisfied with its examination. Metal glinted at its belt, and it drew a short hunting knife.

  Ryn thrashed like a rabbit caught in a snare; there was no strategy to it, only fear-given strength and desperation. She could not die here. Not like this, not with the cauldron unfound and Ellis being dragged away. She had not come this far only for a dead scout to cut her throat. She imagined the warmth leaving her, imagined lying on the ground until the next night.

  Perhaps she would rise again. Perhaps she would be herself, or perhaps she would become a monster: one of those legendary creatures she had loved as a child. She might wander the night, silent and restless, until a proper hero arrived to end the curse. Perhaps she would even find her father in the forest.

  For the briefest moment, her struggles slowed.

  And then she thought of Ellis, his mouth against hers, of Gareth, that last embrace before he told her to return, and Ceridwen, her hair shining in the sunlight. She thought of her father’s hand in hers, and how he’d told her not to let go.

  She hadn’t let go.

  It was time to let go.

  And to live.

  Her knee came up, catching the bone house in the curve of its spine. The creature lurched, but its tight grip did not loosen. The skull grinned down at her, and it placed that hunter’s blade against t
he soft flesh of her throat.

  Panic burned within her. No. It couldn’t—not like this. No—

  And that was when the goat slammed into the bone house.

  Horns caught on bone and the dead scout released Ryn. She gasped, dragging air into her lungs with jagged relief. She lay there for a few moments, just trying to breathe, before she pushed herself to her elbows.

  The bone goat was attacking. Long, curved horns lowered, hooves pawing at the ground in a silent warning. It barreled toward the bone house a second time, hitting it with such force that Ryn heard something snap. The scout twitched like a half-squashed bug, fingers moving spasmodically.

  The goat huffed, then trotted back to Ryn’s side. If a goat could look pleased with herself, she did.

  “You daft, beautiful, rotting thing,” said Ryn, a giddy laugh rising out of her. “Come on.”

  Her wrist ached but she picked up her sword and took off across the grass. The bone houses were nearly out of sight.

  They were taking Ellis to the farthest cottage. One of the bone houses was dragging him along by his leg. Ryn lengthened her stride, but the bone goat got there first.

  The goat caught the dead soldier head-on, and its leg buckled beneath it. Ellis cried out, kicking wildly as another bone house tried to take hold of him. He slipped free, scrambling to his feet. His eyes alighted on Ryn, and she saw relief spread across his face. Not for himself, but for her. Of course the fool would be more worried about her when he was the one being captured, she thought.

  She thrust her sword into another bone house, breaking its ribs and wrenching it to the ground. She brought the flat of the blade down on its face, cracking the skull wide. Its helmet fell away, and the creature twitched on the ground, grasping at its own broken head.

  Ellis grappled with a third bone house, his fingers catching on the skull. With a mighty wrench, he twisted the head to one side. A crack resounded through the night, and the bone house fell limply to the ground. Ryn brought her sword down and felt the creature’s back break beneath the blow.