“You should be getting back,” said Hywel, breaking into Ryn’s thoughts.
Ryn inclined her head toward the fields of tall grasses. “I saw one of them. I need to take care of it before I return home.”
Hywel gave her a despairing sort of look. “Listen, girl. How about we both head back to the village, stop by the Red Mare. I can spare an hour before returning to the mill. A drink on me.”
“No.” A hesitation, then, “Thank you. You shouldn’t walk home in the dark, not tonight.”
“Your family needs you,” he said, more gently than she expected.
She stood a little straighter. The sun was all but set, casting a golden glow across the fields. Shadows crept in along the trees, and a cool breeze whispered through Ryn’s loose shirt.
She thought of the grave mounds. Of the sleeping bones warm and safe beneath the earth.
“I know,” she said. Hywel shook his head, but he didn’t protest. He gave her one last nod before walking away from the village, toward the nearby creek and mill. The sword dragged, a little too heavy for the old man.
The village would be preparing for nightfall. Latches on all the doors locked. Gareth would blow out the candles, and the scent of burnt tallow would linger in the kitchen. Ceri would be getting ready for bed.
Ryn reached into her pack. She’d brought a bundle of hard bread and cheese and, lastly, her axe. She liked eating out here, amid the wilds and the graves. She felt more comfortable here than she did in the village. When she returned home, the weight of her life would settle upon her once again. There would be unpaid rent, food stores that should be filled for winter, an anxious brother, and a future that needed sorting out. The other young women of Colbren were finding spouses, joining the cantref armies, or taking up a socially acceptable trade. When she tried to imagine doing the same, she could not. She was a half-wild creature that loved a graveyard, the first taste of misty night air, and the heft of a shovel.
She knew how things died.
And in her darkest moments, she feared she did not know how to live.
So she sat at the edge of the graveyard and watched as the sun vanished behind the trees. A silvery half-light fell across the fields, and Ryn’s heartbeat quickened. It was not truly dark, but it was dark enough for magic.
The sound of shuffling feet made her stand up. It was not the gait of an animal—but of a two-legged creature, one who could not walk properly.
Ryn rose and gripped her axe in one hand.
“Come on,” she murmured. “I know you’re out there.”
And she did know. She’d seen the figure in the wee hours of the morning: a half-broken thing that had vanished into the tall grasses.
She heard the approach. It was slow—a staggering gait.
Thump. Shuffle. Thump.
The creature rose with the night.
It looked like something out of the tales that her father used to tell—a spindly creature of rotted flesh and tattered clothing. It was having trouble walking and every other step made the figure stagger.
Shuffle. Thump.
It had been a woman: A long dress trailed behind it, dragging in the dirt. Ryn didn’t recognize her, but she must have died recently. Perhaps a traveler. A turned ankle could kill a person in the wilds, if they were alone.
“Good evening,” said Ryn.
The creature went still. Its neck gave a sickening pop as it turned to look at her. Ryn wasn’t sure how it could see—the eyes were always the first bits to go.
The bone house did not speak. They never did.
But still, Ryn felt obligated to say something.
“Sorry about this,” said Ryn. And then she swung the axe at the dead woman’s knees.
The first time, she’d gone for the head. Turned out, the dead were like chickens. They didn’t need heads to blunder about. Knees were a much more practical target.
The blade bit into bone.
The woman staggered, reaching out for Ryn. Ryn ducked back, but the woman’s brittle fingers caught her on the shoulder. She felt the rake of nails, the fingers stiffened in death. Ryn tore the axe free, and there was another nauseating wrenching sound, like tissues being rent apart. The dead woman fell to the ground. It rolled over, dug its bony fingers into the earth, and began to crawl toward Colbren.
“Would you please stop that?” Ryn brought the axe down a second time, and then a third. Finally, the creature went still.
Ryn pulled on a pair of leather gloves and set about searching the body. No coin purse, no valuables. She exhaled sharply, trying to hold back a sinking disappointment. She wasn’t a grave robber—and she didn’t take coin from the dead she was paid to bury. But these creatures that haunted the forest were fair game. After all, the cursed dead cared little for money. Only the living had need of it.
And Ryn did have need.
She’d gather up what was left of the woman, place the parts in a burlap sack, and bring them into the village for burning. Only the forge burned hot enough for bone.
It was the only peace she could offer the woman.
Ryn clenched her teeth as she hauled the burlap sack to the graveyard. She tied it shut, just to make sure no parts escaped. Her muscles burned with exertion. Despite the chill of the night, a sweat had soaked through her shirt.
The sack gave a twitch. “Stop that,” said Ryn.
Another twitch.
Ryn crouched, settling on the ground beside the sack. She gave it an awkward sort of pat, the way she might try to calm her little sister. “If you’d stayed in the forest, you would have been fine. Want to tell me why death suddenly has an urge to wander?”
The sack went still.
Ryn pulled her gloves off and ate a few mouthfuls of bara brith. The dark bread was sweet and studded with dried fruit. The food eased the hollow feeling in her stomach. She looked at the sack and had the sudden urge to offer it a piece of bread. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes.
This was the problem with being a gravedigger in Colbren.
Nothing stayed buried forever.
CHAPTER 2
ELLIS HAD A fondness for travel.
When he first left the castle of Caer Aberhen, he had spent some time in the southern port cities. He had considered sailing to the continent on one of the sleek vessels brimming with freshly caught pollock and eels. He worked on a map of the docks for a harbormaster while he contemplated the course his life should take. He’d enjoyed a comfortable bed in the manor house, far from the bustle and noise of the city, and thought himself worldly for leaving Caer Aberhen so far behind.
But now he stood at the edge of a forest, utterly alone, and realized his own mistake.
He loved new places—but the travel involved was a nightmare.
His tent was sunken.
Strung between two small trees, it should have looked sturdy and warm, but instead appeared like a loaf of fallen bread. He frowned, tried to adjust the way the canvas draped, but pain flared beneath his left collarbone.
The cold night air aggravated his old injury. He was always leaning toward fires, hovering near wood stoves, and seeking out stray patches of sunlight. It was only when he was tucked amid the library stacks at Caer Aberhen that he’d forced himself to endure the chill that would settle into his joints. Even so, his hands remained deft. They had to be, if he were to make a living as a mapmaker.
With a resigned sigh, he reached for his pack. Rolls of parchment peeked out of the top. He plucked one from the cluster. The maps were old friends, speaking to him in lines and etchings as clearly as people spoke with words. He looked down at this particular map; it was smaller than the others, smudged with dirt and fingerprints. Yet there were flourishes of whimsy—small, shadowed creatures peeked through the branches of a forest, and a dragon perched atop a mountain. It reminded him of the maps he’d seen sailors use, where the edges of the parchment were marked with serpents. Here be dragons.