The Skeleth Read online

  Tom flinched. To him, the name of Vithric had taken on the meaning of a curse. “But, my lord, what makes you so sure Vithric was telling you the truth? He drained the life out of two children, right before my eyes, and he would have done that same to me if Edmund had not stopped him. Why would you trust what he said?”

  Tristan’s sword hand clenched in, then released, settling back onto the battlement. “I do not doubt what you told me about Vithric, even though it wounds me to the heart.” He turned back to Tom. “But even if my old friend has fallen into evil, he was not always so. You must believe me, Tom, Vithric was once my most trusted companion and adviser. He had a hundred chances to bring the whole world to ruin in the old days, but he fought with all he had to save it instead. How he turned from that into the man who wished to murder you is a riddle I have yet to solve.”

  Tom hitched his belt, making sure that the gear he carried would not get in his way on the descent. “Yes, my lord.” He could hear the pain in Tristan’s voice and did not press the matter further.

  Tristan shrugged the heavy coil of rope from his shoulder. “Vithric told me that the tall tower of this castle was once known, in the tongue of the ancient people who threw off the yoke of the Nethergrim, as the Tower of the Queen of the Heart. Those folk had done a great service to the world by overthrowing the Nethergrim and her servants, but in the chaos that followed they were too weak to resist invasion from a vigorous folk coming over the mountains from the west, the people from whom we take our name and language—the Pael.”

  He looped one end of the rope around his waist. “This queen had two sisters, and each of the three practiced a different form of the secret art that folk call magic—Ahidhan, Eredh, and Dhrakal, to use their words. Each sister married herself to a conquering king of the Pael, so that the two peoples might share the land without strife. The brother kings, though, could not keep peace between themselves—ever did two turn upon one, only for their alliance to weaken and break, an endless turn and turn of feud and retribution. At last, one of the kings, pressed to the last throw by his brothers, forced his queen to do what all of her people had sworn never to do—make contact with the Nethergrim once more.

  “She was of the Eredh—a seer, a speaker of dooms and a maker of pacts.” Tristan tied his end of the rope into a knot. “It was said that she alone of all the queens truly loved her husband, and perhaps that is meant to excuse her part in what followed. She brought the voice of the Nethergrim back into the north, and into the thought of her king. A price was paid, a bargain struck, and the creatures named the Skeleth came forth into the world. What folk had sought to build upon the ruins of the Nethergrim’s dominion washed away like sand at a riverbend. Conqueror and conquered became one people in shared suffering, as the Skeleth ravaged, ruined and despoiled their homes.”

  “Then—how?” said Tom. “How are we even here to speak of it? The Skeleth must have been stopped, somehow.”

  “It fell to the other two sisters,” said Tristan. “Here my knowledge fails, for I am no wizard, and Vithric told me that this part of the account is out of all record. Somehow, though, the two surviving queens trapped the Skeleth with a spell, sealing them within the very casket you hold. They feared to hide or bury it anywhere, lest someone find and open it, so instead they chose to keep it safe within this stronghold. Here it sat, undisturbed for centuries, until I found it. I swore to keep it safe and told only those I trusted most with the secret of its existence—John Marshal, of course, and also Vithric.”

  Tom shouldered up a pack stuffed to bursting with all the food and supplies Rahilda and the village women could cram into it. “And now those creatures are loose again upon the world, a force that can kill without end.”

  “A mighty spell was once cast to seal these creatures away,” said Tristan. “To trap them, to save the north, it must be done again. We need both Dhrakal and Ahidhan, both the paths of magic that trapped the Skeleth. With the help of one of each kind, we might learn how the Skeleth were sealed away and find a way to repeat the deed.”

  “My friend Edmund won’t be hard to find,” said Tom. “He broke the spell of the Nethergrim. I’m sure he can help us.”

  “From all you that have told me, your friend follows the path of Dhrakal.” Tristan held out the free end of the rope. “You remember how to find the other, the Revered Elder of the Ahidhan?”

  “South at the junction on the other side of the pass, then two bridges and east to the Harrowell.” Tom wrapped the rope around his waist and legs, then tied a knot at his middle. “If I get lost, ask a farmer or a boatsman.”

  Tristan took up the slack. “I wish that I could be of more aid to you than serving as an adviser and a lowering winch.”

  “Lowering me here will get me on my way much faster than using the postern gate and rowing around the castle.” Tom looped the dangling end of the rope through the handles of the carven box and tied it tight. “For my part, I wish I understood what Lord Wolland wanted out of all of this.”

  “That is no great mystery,” said Tristan. “Wolland is a lord, and lords want land. If he and Warbur Drake are indeed in alliance, all that he must do is move his own army across the river to claim what Drake has cleared. It is a monstrous thought, a betrayal of everything right and noble, and yet I can believe him guilty of the act. By treachery he struck in the old wars, changing sides without warning and taking our former king hostage. For his service, he was scorned as a faithless scoundrel and given nothing in reward—and ever since, a dark fire has blazed behind those deep eyes of his.”

  Tom shook his head. “But if anyone makes war, will not the king punish him? Lords and knights all swear oaths to serve the king, so they cannot fight one another.”

  Tristan sighed, then almost laughed. “How I wish it were that simple. Oaths bind only those who think them sacred. It is a sorrowful truth that many men have spoken oaths they do not mean to keep.”

  Tom liked the world of lords and kings less and less, the more he knew of it. “It seems foolish for men to make war upon one another, when there are things in the world that threaten them all in common.”

  A wistful smile worked the corners of Tristan’s mouth. “Why those who think as you do never seem to sit on thrones is a question that grieves me more and more as I get older.”

  Tom stepped to the battlements. “Thank you, my lord. At least I know enough to tell friend from foe.”

  Tristan followed him to the edge. “I do not suppose I can prevail upon you to take my sword.”

  “It’s too heavy, my lord.” Tom lowered the box to dangle it over the edge.

  “Very well.” Tristan looped the rope in his hand. “Take a good grip, now.”

  “I’ll ride one of the horses those brigands left behind out there.” Tom hooked a heel over the wall. “I promise I’ll turn and run if I see trouble.” His hands met Tristan’s on the rope.

  “Often have I wished for children of my own.” Tristan braced his feet on the wall. “But never so much as today. Return to us safe, Tom, and soon.”

  “I will.”

  Tristan took up the weight on the rope without the slightest strain. “Over you go, now. Set your feet on the wall so that you do not spin.”

  Tom scrabbled out under the overhang and braced his feet on the wall. The rope played out in sure and steady measures from above, lowering Tom to the earth as though he were as light as a dandelion seed.

  “I’m down, my lord!” Tom let go in the scrub at the bottom of the moat.

  Tristan leaned out from far above. “The wind grant you speed, Tom.” He waved a hand. “We will hold for your return.”

  Tom untied the rope and picked up the box, then climbed onto the rise across the moat. The brigands clustered at the gate, their hands at the iron bars holding them inside. Aldred Shakesby stood among them, his hood thrown back from his bald pate. The scar on his face made his snarl all the ug
lier. He raised a finger and pointed; Tom could not catch his words but had no trouble understanding what he meant by them.

  Sacks of hasty plunder lay in piles on the road. Tom could still smell the ashes from the burned-out barn—no one had told him if only that building had gone up in flames, as he had planned and hoped, or if some of the women were now homeless, amongst their other sorrows. He could not see the village through the trees, and that was not the way he was going, so he stopped wondering. He had too many things to mourn for already, and too much to fear.

  “Here, now.” He found what he had hoped to find, half a mile up the road toward the pass out of the valley. One of the horses stolen by the brigands, a bay gelding with the gait of a draft horse, ran skittish through the scrub along the road, trailing his lead out behind him and nearly stepping on it in his wanderings.

  Tom set down the box and held forth an open palm. “Is the rope bothering you? Here, I can help.” He got the horse in hand with much less trouble than he had feared. The horse was big, a bulky giant, but like many massive beasts had a gentle eye and a trusting nature. He doubted that Katherine would have approved of his wild leap onto the horse’s back with the box under one arm, but what mattered was that after some scrambling he sat astride.

  “Come on, then.” Tom tried to remember what Katherine did to speed horses up. “Let’s try a trot.” He squeezed his knees, then tapped his ankles in. The horse raised his head, turned an eye on Tom, then trudged on at the same speed as before. Tom decided to take his gift just as it was offered.

  The road leveled out before him and began to rise toward the pass. Tom let one more wave of relief come and go—if nothing else, there were people safe in a castle who had felt no safety at all the day before. Whatever else might be so, there was that. He cast a look back at the castle, then the tower, and urged the horse to greater speed, again without success. He let his guard relax—and if not for the utter silence of the valley, he might never have heard it.

  He did hear it, though, and when he did, his heart felt as though it had frozen. It was a whine, lost and weak, coming from the trees that bounded the road between castle and village. He had already passed well by the spot—it was a last, despairing call, almost a goodbye.

  “Jumble!” Tom sprang from the back of the horse. He dove through needled branches, down a hummock and into an open grove. He dropped to his knees before the form amongst the fallen leaves, patches of black-and-white fur and two odd-colored ears drooped low.

  Jumble tried to raise his head. He lacked the strength; it fell back to the earth.

  Chapter 21

  So tell me, Edmund Bale. When will it be your turn to drive the cart?”

  Edmund jolted up. “What?” He sat on the edge of Gilbert Wainwright’s best wagon, his legs dangled down so that his heels nearly brushed the turning wheel below. He held the Paelandabok on his lap, arms braced along the pages to hold them flat in the wind.

  “The cart, Edmund, the wagon.” Mercy Wainwright sat beside her husband at the front, bouncing their infant son on her knee. “When will you drive one of your own, and who will sit beside you when you do?”

  The words of the book swirled in Edmund’s mind . . . for his loyal men came death within life, for his enemies an end without a grave. He gained dominion over kin and kine, and set up his throne over all things on two feet and on four, but it did not last, it could not last . . . He tried and failed to understand what Mercy was getting at. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t play dense, Edmund.” Mercy loosened her baby’s hold on a hanging lock of her hair. “You stand to inherit the inn one day, and you’re not even all that ugly. So, who will be sitting on your wagon when you do?”

  “Oh, let him be, love.” Gilbert drove the wagon with one hand upon the reins and an arm around Mercy’s waist. “Edmund’s got plenty of time to find a wife.”

  “Tourney days are lovers’ days, man of mine.” Mercy kissed Gilbert on his stubbled cheek. “Or have you forgotten?”

  Their daughter, Celia, looked up at Edmund from her game of dolls on the floor of the wagon. Emma Russet nudged Miles Twintree and turned to smirk at Edmund from her seat on the back. Of all the passengers on the cart, only Geoffrey seemed to find Mercy’s inquest into Edmund’s marriage prospects as uninteresting as Edmund did himself. Edmund let his eyes slide back down to the lead-ruled line of words: As there is no alliance between water and fire, nor is there concord between the wolf and the lamb, so is there no faith to keep between living men and That Which Waits Within the Mountain.

  “Very well, Edmund, you force me to guess.” Mercy tapped her angular chin. “Molly Atbridge?”

  Edmund looked up from the book again. “What—who? No.”

  “Ah. Then—Siffy Twintree?”

  “No.” Edmund spoke over a chorus of retching sounds from Miles and Emma.

  “Anna Maybell?”

  Edmund sat up rigid. “No!”

  Mercy’s smile sharpened. “Someone else, then.” She exchanged a look with her husband. “Thought so.”

  “Who?” said Emma, and then to Edmund: “Who?”

  Edmund looked away, flushing hot to the roots of his hair.

  “Let him read his books, Mercy.” Gilbert twitched the reins to steer them over the bridge across the Swanborne stream. “Edmund Bale goes his own way in the world; no one doubts that anymore.”

  “Reading some dusty old book on his way to a joust, though.” Mercy tutted, and winked at Edmund. “Don’t you know how hard girls try to pretty themselves up on days like this? Don’t let it go to waste!”

  Edmund shook his head and returned to the open page before him. Gilbert’s wagon bore him south out of Moorvale, down the Longsettle road toward the castle and the jousting field. The sun shone white, warm and kindly for an autumn afternoon. The folk of Moorvale were ranged along the road in carts, on horseback and on foot, chattering in clumps at a holiday volume as though their world could never fail and fall apart.

  “What are you reading?” Miles Twintree thrust his shadow between Edmund and the page. He was Geoffrey’s age but looked younger, a mousy-haired boy burned berry-brown from his labors in orchard and field. “Come on, what is it? Some kind of magic spell?”

  Edmund shrugged Miles aside. “If I told you what I was reading, you wouldn’t understand a word of it, so I’m not going to bother.”

  “You don’t tell me anything, anymore.” Miles turned away sulking. “Just because I didn’t go to that stupid mountain.”

  Geoffrey looked up from the floor of the wagon, where he sat sorting his arrows for the archery tourney. He cast a glance at Miles. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He wishes he had gone to see the Nethergrim.” Edmund shook his head and returned to his studies.

  Gilbert leaned back from his seat. “Now, what are you kids whispering about back there?”

  “Nothing, Master Wainwright.” Edmund nodded to him with a fake smile. “Just talking about the joust. We’re all excited about it.”

  “Especially for Harry’s turn!” said Emma. It occurred to Edmund that her hand-embroidered dress and carefully arranged hair were quite possibly done in hopes that somehow Harry might notice her in the crowd.

  “Ha!” Gilbert shook his head. “Just don’t go making wagers on our lad Harry.”

  “Oh—no, Master Wainwright.” Edmund laughed. “Very bad bet, so I hear.”

  Gilbert leaned back to the reins. “I just hope he falls quick and easy, and doesn’t get too badly hurt. Last thing I want is to lose Elverain’s only heir.”

  “It’s just a joust, though.” Emma started to look genuinely worried. “Blunt lances. It’s all for show, isn’t it?”

  Gilbert shook his head. “Men die jousting from time to time, Emma, blunt lances and all. It’s a sport for rich fools, you ask me.”

  “Gilbert!” Mercy swat
ted his shoulder. “Don’t scare my little sister like that!”

  “Why, what’s the trouble?”

  Mercy leaned to whisper in his ear.

  “Father’s thunder!” Gilbert laughed and whipped the reins to speed them. “Is there a girl in Elverain who is not in love with Harry?”

  The road descended gentle and sure, turning past cottages, byres and fields on the way down to Longsettle, then through it and up again toward Northend and the castle. Bright banners and pennants had been hung about the square in the colors of Elverain, dark green and silver-white, above a milling crowd. Pavilion tents stood on the field at the foot of the hill before the castle, each flying its own colors and devices.

  “Who’s that coming up the road, there?” said Gilbert. “That’s Katherine, isn’t it?”

  Edmund stood up to look. Katherine wore her best blue dress, and her hair had been worked into an elaborate, ribboned braid that matched its color. She wore a closed and inward expression, the way her father always looked when someone asked him to tell a brave old war story.

  “I’ll walk from here, Master Wainwright.” Edmund hopped off the back of the wagon.

  “Thanks for the ride.” He joined Katherine at the verge, avoiding the knowing, smiling gazes of the Wainwrights. The wagon pulled away along the road, Emma giggling and whispering into Miles’s ear on the back.

  “I came to find you as soon as I could.” Katherine turned back south again, following the disappearing wagon down toward the jousting field. “Some things have happened.”

  “I know they have.” Edmund wanted to give Katherine a compliment, but it came out all wrong: “Why are you dressed like that?”

  Katherine would not look at him. “Even maidservants get holidays sometimes.” She walked a few more paces with her brows drawn low. “Edmund, I have come to warn you of the danger you’re in.”