One evening in early summer he ambled up to Clan Drake’s hilltop Manor overlooking Riverton and hammered on the gates to be let in. It was the day after the payment was normally made, but Morcant was always late to everything, even his own payday. He’d grown tired of the press of his relatives on these occasions, all of whom seemed to cast worried or pitying glances his way as they lined up for their thin sack of coppers. Those who showed up for the handout were the losers of the clan. Most were widows and the like, down on their luck. But he knew he stood out as the biggest, tallest and most absolute loser of them all. As far as he knew, he was the only drunken lout in the family who couldn’t hold a job. In order to avoid that staring crowd, he’d taken to arriving a day late.

  He hammered upon the gates again, until finally an aged watchman with a fat gut named Roland opened it. Morcant pushed past him without so much as a by-your-leave.

  “Humph,” said the watchman.

  Morcant ignored him. Let the man huff and snort. Just so long as he got his coin and left this place behind. At the back entrance to the Manor, a half-door was open at the top. These were the kitchens, where young people tasked with scullery chores bustled about finishing the evening feast.

  “Ah, there you are Morcant!” said the matron who ran the place, Dera Drake. “I’ve got your coin for you—knew you’d be late.”

  “Thank you, Dera,” Morcant rumbled. He stood there waiting, knowing she would bring him the coins quickly and probably give him a sack of good dinner to go with it. He was always polite to Dera. She treated him well enough, and it was always wise to be on the good side of a woman handing out coins.

  She gave him a thin leather pouch and a package wrapped in waxed paper. “Now, don’t spill that, man. And mind the bottom, it’s hot.”

  Morcant thanked her again and wandered back down the lane to the gates. Roland threw them open and watched with hooded eyes as he passed by. There were no good-byes offered by either man.

  A hot loaf of bread and two chicken thighs. It was better fare than he usually could afford, so he ate them both with gusto standing along the High Street outside the gates. After that, he was thirsty and decided to visit a tavern he knew with comely wenches and strong brews. Usually the first evening after he got his sack of coins was the best, because he could afford to get well and truly drunk that night.

  While he stood there chewing, voices came down the lane from the Manor and the gates swung open again. He stayed put, not wanting to be caught walking beside a near relative for any length of time. They were likely to strike up a conversation, and next thing he knew they would ask: so, where are you working now? Or still down on your luck, Morcant? What he saw next was a surprise.

  “Come on back anytime, fair lady!” said the fat watchman. Roland leered as a young lady stepped by.

  Such a light step, such a fine figure! What cousin was this? He suspected perhaps she was a young thing, just having matured into a blossoming beauty. Then she turned him an appraising glance and he caught sight of her strangely-shaped eyes. He knew what she was then: an elf woman!

  His gaze followed her with growing intensity. His lustful stare was nothing unusual, as most of the men in the Haven knew immediate feelings of desire when they saw such creatures. These enchanting women had been awarded to a lucky few, but not to Morcant, of course. He’d entered the lottery and lost, as he’d suspected he would. The entire game had been rigged, he felt sure of it to this day. That Brand and his axe was a cheat, as sure as the River’s flow.

  The elf girl had hair that flamed red and blue at once. It wasn’t purple, being lighter and brighter than that. Whatever the color was called, Morcant was enchanted immediately. Ah, what it must be like to bed a fine creature such as this! He’d never been able to secure a wife or even a girlfriend who lasted more than an evening. The tavern wenches he occasionally paid for favors were more matronly than elf-like.

  The girl eyed him in return as she passed close by, and flashed him a smile. Oh, how sweet that was! Morcant caught the smile as if she had cast a stone, and felt stricken by it. She walked past him and on down the High Street. He thought to follow her, but knew it was worse than useless to do so.

  She paused however, and turned back. She tilted her head toward him and beckoned. Her tiny, crooked finger was like a giant hook to Morcant. He stumbled forward, an oaf in a dream.

  She led him down the High Street at a stately pace. Breathing hard, he walked no more than a pace behind her. She turned when they came to the side path that led up to the cemetery on the next hill over from Drake Manor. This was a lonely, overgrown lane with dark trees looming close overhead. Morcant could hardly see it was so dark, but she began to glimmer as the Shining Folk often did in darkness. He followed her glimmering form into a copse of trees near the cemetery and she finally allowed him to take her. He could not believe his good fortune. When they were finished, he fell upon one knee before her. Even so, with her standing and him kneeling, they were the same height and their eyes met.

  “Milady,” he said. “To what do I owe this honor and how may I ensure it happens again?”

  She smiled at him and licked her lips. “My name is Tegan,” she said. “Tegan Drake.”

  He stared at her, and his big face fell. His heavy jaw sagged open. “You are married? To my own clansman?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  Anger stirred within Morcant. He’d been the fool. He’d been misled by this foreign woman. “Did one of those jackasses at the Manor put you up to this?” he asked dangerously.

  “Whatever do you mean?” she asked, sounding amused.

  “I mean, if there was a wager made and won by one of my relations tonight, I’m going to pound him into the dust that encircles your fine feet.”

  Tegan laughed then, and the sound was like silver bells. “No, silly,” she said. “That isn’t it at all. No one knows what we’ve done.”

  “Talk then. Tell me why you would do this.”

  “My husband is Gwril,” she said. “Perhaps you’ve met?”

  “I know my own cousin,” he rumbled. Gwril was a bookish type who’d never been able to get a maid to marry him, a smallish man with spectacles and a pate as bald as a polished stone. He didn’t like Gwril—he didn’t like most people. But the man had never done him any harm.

  “He’s not been—enough for me,” she explained.

  Morcant’s stern expression softened somewhat. He thought perhaps he had begun to understand the situation. “You have appetites?” he asked.

  “Yes, and I want them fulfilled.”

  “What of Gwril? What of my clan?” he demanded. Immediately, he thought of his stipend. It had to be in jeopardy over this. It was one thing to be the family’s brawling, drunken black-sheep. It was quite another to take his own cousin’s wife. Old man Thilfox wouldn’t stand for such nonsense and disloyalty. Morcant knew he would be expelled for good.

  Tegan stepped forward and let her lips part slightly. She tapped his big nose and ran her fine fingers over his thrusting jaw. “Such a strong man you are. I’ll make a bargain with you: never you tell a soul about us, and I’ll do the same.”

  Morcant blinked, considering the concept. He could not find a flaw in it. They embraced again, and did so several times a week thereafter—whenever she could get away from the Manor without rousing suspicions.

  When fall came, she lay with him in the woods once more and afterward, she patted her belly. “Do you know what I have in here, Morcant?” she asked.

  He stared at her fine, flat stomach hungrily. “Everything I want,” he said.

  She laughed again. He loved her laugh, and he realized he’d come to love her very much.

  “No, silly! I mean I’m carrying the fruit of your seed.”

  Morcant blinked. “You are with child?”

  “Yes, love.”

  “Are you sure it’s mine?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “Gwril can’t make a child. He is flawed.”

  “He knows this?”

  “Yes. But I didn’t when I married him. If I had, I’d never have agreed. Among my folk, such a thing voids the marriage instantly.”

  “Well, it doesn’t among mine!” said Morcant, sputtering. “This means he’ll know the baby is not his! What should we do?”

  “Do?” she asked. “We’ll be parents, that’s what we’ll do.”

  Morcant’s mind raced. The kid wasn’t likely to turn out short and bald. The truth might not be discovered, but Tegan would be suspected.

  “Can I still…see you?”

  “I don’t know about that. I’ll be watched much more closely now.”

  Morcant saw she was pulling away from him. Their eyes no longer met when she spoke. Had this been all she wanted? A child from his loins? He felt a great ripple of emotion run through him. For once, it was not a feeling of anger, but of despair. He’d come to love this elf woman, and he did not want to give her up, nor his unborn child.

  “I know what to do,” he said. “I’ll gather money—you’ll see! Then we’ll run from here. We’ll go to North End, then to the sea, and maybe to Eire or to live with the wagon peoples. We’ll go somewhere. Will you come?”

  She looked at him, then smiled sweetly. “The Manor is so boring,” she said. “I’ll come with you. But wherever we go, there must be trees, love. Tall, green trees.”

  Morcant promised there would be trees. After they had parted, he found himself seeking work. He did so with a new fever, an urgency he’d never felt before. He took off his hat when he met with men of means, and clutched it tightly in his heavy hand. He tried to look contrite, and tried to stop his cheek muscles from bulging as they explained carefully they were not hiring at the moment, but he should check back in a month or two.

  Morcant knew that in a month or two it would be too late. He had to have work and coin now. Tegan would begin to show with child soon, and then the game would be finished. He knew despair by the third day. He’d tried every shop, dockhouse and farmer in the vicinity of Riverton.

  Finally, he decided to try the less clean jobs—work for people who were not fickle about what their hands touched or how they smelled afterward. They turned him away at the fisheries where they gutted and dried stinking fish all day. The fisherman families did all such work themselves, the boats were clan-owned and operated and always had been, he learned. This did not really surprise him. River Folk generally functioned that way. The jobs one performed were largely guided by the family one was born into. Morcant had been born into a clan with means, his people were healers, bankers, accountants, scribes and lawyers, but he’d long ago squandered such opportunities.

  When he was close to despair, it was the Fobs who gave him a kindly steer. They were tanners, and had a monopoly on every part of the making of leather, save for the breeding of the animals themselves. Morcant was almost glad to be turned away by them, the stink of their tanning vats was even worse than the fishery had been. But on the way out, they suggested he try the old cemetery up the lane. They’d heard Daz the caretaker was getting on in years and was looking for a helper with a strong back.

  Morcant marched up cemetery hill with hope in his heart. It had been a week since Tegan had given him the news and they’d struck their bargain to run away together. It was about time he was given a break in this world. The lane was familiar to him now, as he’d spent many evenings here meeting with Tegan in secret. He liked the place immediately, as it was full of fond memories.

  He met with Daz, who invited him into his ramshackle hut for a drink. They tipped cups together, and Daz hired him on the spot. Morcant knew a great sense of relief. This job would be perfect. It didn’t pay much, but with careful accounting, he should be able to afford passage north within a month. They would then travel to the sea beyond the Haven and figure out their next move there. The reach of Clan Drake was impressive, but it did not extend past the borders of the Haven.

  As he started his first days of work, Morcant thought the quiet environment of the cemetery would be good for him. It was a restful place—and the tenants were quiet indeed. There was no one to trigger his nasty temper. Even Daz seemed like a reasonable fellow who wouldn’t badger him about his work and get himself punched in the eye—as all his previous bosses had managed eventually. The old man would give him chores and Morcant would do them all without complaint. At least until he had the coin he needed. After that, he would spirit Tegan away, and they would put the Haven behind them.

  The day Morcant dug his very first grave, he dug it deep and square. Daz inspected the work and praised him. It was a job well done and both men knew it. Standing in the grave, Morcant grinned up at Daz and shaded his face with his heavy hand. Things were definitely looking better from his point of view. He could not wait to tell Tegan the news.

  Two weeks later, they had a surprise burial. A woman had died in childbirth and her infant son had not survived the night. For reasons Morcant didn’t understand, the Silure family wanted them both buried the very next evening. This gave Morcant two graves to dig in a single afternoon. He didn’t complain when Daz told him of the rush job however, he simply grabbed up his spade and headed toward the graveyard, which was essentially grassy open area of the hilltop. Daz would give him a silver farthing for each grave, he knew. He told himself the work would help a family that wanted an urgent burial and they would pay extra for the service. It could only help him achieve his own goals more quickly.

  Trees covered most of the hill, but not the graveyard itself. Each year, Daz cleared the trees from a new section of the hill, enough for twenty to thirty new graves. This had become part of Morcant’s routine, chopping down trees and clearing land when there were no graves to be dug. The hardest part was ripping out the stumps. They had to bring up a mule team from Riverton to help with that. Today there would be no chopping, but instead it would be a long day of digging. Fortunately, an infant’s grave did not need to be as large as an adult’s, but it wasn’t that much smaller. There had to be room enough for the gravedigger to stand in the bottom of the hole and work, after all.

  He started by laying out leather tarps to catch the dirt as he threw it. When the ceremony was finished, the earth had to be shoveled back in without covering the nearby grasses. Then the same sod, carefully cut into squares, would be replaced atop the soil. With proper workmanship, the family would be able to visit the spot the next day without seeing so much as a clod of spare soil to remind them of the hole he’d dug today. Daz had taught Morcant this procedure, and the bigger man had not argued. There were few things in the world he respected, but the Dead were among them.

  When he had the graves dug down to the level of his shoulders, he was almost finished. The rule was the hole had to be as deep as his shovel was long, and a little bit more. Standing in the grave, throwing scoop after scoop of dark earth over his shoulder onto the tarps, he heard a rumbling sound out on the lane. He looked up and saw a cart rolling up from town. He could tell immediately what the cart carried. Two boxes of rough-hewn wood rode behind the cartsman. Morcant frowned and leaned on his spade. His head, sticking up from the ground, gave him an odd perspective. He wondered if the dead saw the world this way, from a flat angle where they laid within the earth.

  The cart was clearly carrying the corpses in their coffins to the gravesite. But there were no mourners, and the ceremony wasn’t due to commence until sunset. Morcant frowned and heaved himself up out of the grave. He stood and straightened, hailing Daz, the figure he now recognized as the cart driver.

  “Ho, man!” he called. “Why so early?”

  Daz shook his head. “I’m not sure. Old man Tad Silure didn’t say. He just gave me three crowns and told me to bring them up here today.”

  Morcant stared, thinking of three crowns. “Silver or copper?” he asked.

  “Silver,” Daz said, shaking his head.

  Three silver crowns? Morcant thought about that. This was not at all like Old Tad, nor anyone else in his clan. There was something strange afoot here, of that much he was sure.

  “I know,” Daz said. “It is odd. But sometimes, in their grief, people behave differently than they would otherwise.”

  Morcant nodded. “We are to put the coffins in now?”

  “Yes. Before the people arrive.”

  “Should we fill the graves? We don’t even have proper headstones ready yet.”

  Daz nodded. “I know. I haven’t had time to chisel a single letter yet. There will only be their names on these. That much I know.”

  Morcant thought about asking the names, but didn’t. It was best he didn’t know, he figured. This job could be strange enough without knowing an old schoolmate was in the box you were busy lugging about.

  “Let’s get them off the cart,” said Daz. “I’ll go work on the stones. Do you think you can finish the graves and get them inside by yourself?”

  Morcant eyed the two boxes. Neither was large. “I can do it,” he said.

  Daz gave him a quick smile. “That’s why I hired you.”

  They carefully set down the two coffins. Neither felt as if there were more than a few pounds of flesh in them. Morcant was slightly troubled in fact, by their lightness. Did the Silures’ starve their matrons?

  Daz soon had the cart wheeling away toward his workshop and Morcant was left digging again. He worked at a steady pace. His body had grown more powerful since he’d taken this job. The first week had been all aches and pains, but now that he was growing accustomed to the work, he rather enjoyed the labor. As well, put side by side, he had to say that grave digging was better than chopping down trees and clearing the land. The single reason was that the earth down inside the holes was cool. He still sweated and got dirty, but at least he was out of the blaze of the sun when he stood at the bottom of a grave.

  After an hour or so of more digging, Morcant heaved himself out of the grave again. It was harder this time, his muscles were sore and the hole was quite deep. He bent over with his hands upon his knees, sides heaving as he sucked in air for a time. He stared at the two caskets. He decided he’d put down the bigger of the two first. Small ones were tricky, they could tip over on you. He eyed the ropes and straps they usually used to lower caskets. Setting up that mess would take another twenty minutes or more. Deciding to just get it over with, he took hold of the casket and dragged it to the edge of the grave.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67