The second day, mother took him to market, and it was a fun place. They didn’t have much money, but what they had she spent in a vain attempt to make him smile. She bought him a toy: a streamer of colored ribbons tied to a stick with tinkling bells.

  “It looks like a rainbow, mother,” he’d said as he picked it out.

  “Indeed it does!” she’d agreed enthusiastically, and she’d bought it for him.

  He hadn’t the heart to tell her he didn’t want it—that he was a little afraid of rainbows, like any young child of the Haven. Strange beings came out when the rainbows shone in the sky, and the other children at school told him sometimes rainbows could pick themselves up and walk. Great giants they became, things that men could not hope to stand against, monsters hundreds of feet high. Trev wasn’t sure if he believed the other children, but he was still afraid of rainbows.

  Now he had one, and he knew enough about parents to know that he had to be seen playing with it. Heading back to the Spotted Hog after a day of wandering the market, he held it up and let the streamers flow in the fresh winds coming off the river. The bells tinkled and the colored ribbons fluttered brightly. He tried not to look at them, as they made him want to shiver.

  It was on the way up the High Street from the market, which was located close to the docks, that he saw something of interest. A great, wide, swath of land. It was green and broad. Having grown up in a forest with only small plots of land for gardens, the rolling hills and open land intrigued him.

  “What’s that place, mother?”

  She spoke conspiratorially into his ear. “That’s Riverton Common, you’re father and I were married there, years back.”

  Riverton Common. He stopped in his tracks, his mouth slightly open. His eyes scanned the distance until he saw it. Yes, there it was: the largest mound in the River Haven. The only one on Stone Island. “Isn’t that the place? Isn’t that where the offering used to be made?”

  Mari followed his finger and saw where he pointed. “Yes,” she said in a hushed voice. “That’s it.”

  “Where’s the cemetery, mother?” Trev asked.

  “Why would you want to know that?”

  Trev shrugged. He thought up a quick half-truth. He never lied, but he did mislead people sometimes. “We’re studying maps in school now,” he said.

  “Oh,” said his mother, sounding relieved. She showed him where the cemetery was, up near Drake Manor, the biggest clan house on the island.

  “Do they still bury people there?”

  Mari cocked her head and frowned at him. “I suppose. Well, yes. But only local people—people do grow old, you know.”

  “I won’t,” he said. “Not for a very long time.”

  Mari smiled at him then and laughed. “Yes, and I like it that way. I want you to be around Trev, long after everyone here has passed on.”

  “I don’t want to be lonely.”

  “Don’t worry about that! There will be new people by then, plenty of them.”

  Trev nodded. He kept staring toward the common, trying to catch another glimpse of the Faerie mound there. When his mother wasn’t looking, he cast watchful eyes toward the cemetery hill as well.

  Late that night Trev’s eyes snapped open. He hadn’t slept at all, not tonight. He found he wasn’t like most other people that way. He could stay awake for days if he wanted to, and would only feel slightly tired after he did so. In fact, he often felt more awake at night than he did in the day. He wondered if he might be part cat sometimes.

  Mother had gone to sleep hours before, and now he estimated it must be after midnight. His mind was full of images of marching rainbow giants, dancing Faerie on the commons and shuffling Dead in the cemetery. He didn’t know if any of these things were really going on—the world outside their window sounded quiet enough. But he couldn’t stop wondering what was going on out there. Surely, something had to be happening in one of these exciting places.

  He’d never put much thought into these matters before he’d met the Dead King. He knew father was an elf, of course, and that he came and went to the Twilight Lands frequently. That all seemed normal to Trev. He knew also that in the fullness of time Puck would take him to meet his grandfather Oberon, who was by all reports a frightening fellow.

  After meeting the Dead King personally, however, he felt more directly involved in great matters. For a short moment he had been the center of something exciting, something historic, according to father. The Dead normally did not wander about in forgotten pet cemeteries in the Haven Wood.

  Climbing out of his bedclothes and pulling on trousers of woven wool, Trev moved with fantastic stealth. This was another thing he was unusually good at: moving about quietly.

  He’d planned, in his heart of hearts, to only go to the window and gaze outside. But something out there caught his eye. A tall man stood near a lamppost. The man reached up and put out the lantern that hung from the post with his bare finger. The man then stood there, motionless.

  Trev got a chill, looking at the man. He was not one of the Shining Folk—that was for sure. If anything, he was dark and dingy. What was truly strange about him was his lack of movement. He made no sound and he did not look about…he did not even twitch.

  Trev licked his lips and gazed back at his mother. She was sound asleep. Why wake her over something that was probably nothing at all? For all Trev knew, Riverton guardsmen stood this way nightly, motionless and alert until dawn.

  As quietly as he could—which was very quietly indeed—Trev slipped out the window and onto the ledge outside. The window washers used this ledge to get around the large building and clean the windows. Today, however, it would be Trev’s walkway. A similar ledge had been built onto the original Spotted Hog, and had served Piskin as a walkway.

  Trev had no fear of falling. Not even in the night, not even if it rained. He ran along the ledge without a care and jumped when it ended, landing with a soft thud on the roof of the stables. The horses inside whickered and shuffled about. Trev ran over the roof and paused there, in a spot that should afford him an excellent view of the dark lamppost and the motionless man who stood beneath it.

  But the man was not there. Trev looked up and down the High Street, seeing no one. He crouched there, staring and listening. Nothing happened, and after a short time his excitement faded. He thought about going back to bed, but watched as a fat night watchman came walking down the street. Had the watchman seen the strange man? Should Trev call out and tell him about it? Trev did nothing except crouch down on the rooftop. He was too unsure of himself to take any action.

  The watchman came up to the lamppost and put his hands on his hips. The lantern was supposed to be lit, and it was part of his job to keep it burning. Grumbling, the corpulent man pulled out a flint and tinderbox and struck sparks on the side until he had a taper burning, then he stretched and grunted to reach high enough to relight the lantern.

  When he was finished and putting away his tinderbox, he spoke aloud: “What’s this then? By the River! Sir? Are you all right?”

  The watchman knelt at the shrubs beneath the lamppost and dragged a figure out of an overgrown clump of boxwood. He knelt and examined the man.

  Trev could stand it no longer. He hopped down from the roof and trotted across the cobbled street to stand beside the kneeling watchman.

  “Is he all right?” the boy asked.

  The watchman jumped and turned so suddenly, he lost his balance. He almost fell onto the cobbles. Wide, staring blue eyes stared at Trev. “Who are you then?”

  “I’m Trev. Who are you?”

  “Rude child! I’m Roland the watchman of High Street and the Manor. Now, tell me what you’re doing out of bed so late.”

  “I saw this man,” Trev said. “I saw him put out the lamp. Then I thought he’d walked away, but he must have fallen. Is he all right?”

  “No,” said Roland, turning back to examine the fallen figure. “He most certainly isn’t all right. He’s dead. By the look of it, he’s long dead.”

  “But he was standing here. Right here just a few minutes ago.”

  The watchman stared at him. “Are you having a joke, kid?” he asked.

  “I never make jokes.”

  “What are you doing out here so late? You should be in bed.”

  “I saw him behaving oddly, and I came to see what he was doing.”

  The watchman turned back toward the corpse. Trev could see now that the body had been dead awhile. It stank, and there was fresh mud on it here and there.

  “Well I’ll be,” said the watchman, cursing silently under his breath.

  “Do you believe me?” Trev asked.

  “Yes, lad. I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I recognize him now. He’s Morcant Drake, or I’m a hedgehog. He disappeared some years back. Everyone said he ran off because of his debts and because of that elf girl he was carrying on with. They had both disappeared, but then we found Morcant’s body in the woods and buried him. But you don’t need to know anything about all that….”

  “About what? Why would he run off with an elf girl?” Trev asked.

  “Never mind! What I can’t puzzle out, is why he has any meat left on his bones. He should be a skeleton by now.”

  “What does it mean?”

  Roland turned to him and blew out his cheeks. He shook his head slowly. “It means someone has been mistreating our dead, that’s what it means. We’ll have to put a guard up at the cemetery.”

  “What if they walk? What if they all come out and walk into Riverton?”

  Roland laughed nervously. “Full of cheery questions, aren’t you boy? Don’t worry about that! These things happen—now and then. Plenty of Faeries about these days, and sometimes they play cruel tricks. I’ll send word to the council and Brand in the morning. They’ll know what to do. Now, about you being out here so late,” the watchman said, but he trailed off.

  He turned around and looked up and down the street. Trev had vanished.

  * * *

  Gudrin had led her company of guardsmen upon a gruesome hunt. They’d spent a week testing and burning out graves in and around Gronig. She had become increasingly concerned as each day passed. Meeting in a private drinking room in the best tavern Gronig had to offer, she called upon Rorvik to go over their efforts with her.

  “How many graves have we opened up so far, captain?” she asked, nursing her second mug of ale. She grimaced at the skunky flavor. The ale wasn’t the best, but it was all this faded town could offer.

  “Sixty-one, by my count, milady.”

  She nodded slowly. “And we’ve lost?”

  “Twelve good men. But none in the last two days. We’re getting better at the work.”

  They had indeed gotten better. The trick was to dig until they exposed the rotten pustule in the earth with spades—but not to dig so close that they ruptured it. When it was laid bare, almost down to the thin skin of it, Gudrin would come forward and throw in coal. She would fire the coal, using Pyros. The party would then retreat and let the thing cook for a time, sterilizing the ground. Sometimes it popped anyway, and the vile, deadly liquid bubbled up. Then Gudrin had to wade in and burn it out by hand.

  “What do you think of our methods?” she asked.

  Rorvik hesitated.

  “Speak, man! What good is a bodyguard who won’t tell his mistress what’s on his mind?”

  “Well, my Queen,” he began, leaning forward. “I think it is insanely dangerous.”

  Gudrin snorted. “Not like one of my Kindred guards to worry so much about a bit of Kindred skin.”

  Rorvik motioned her to lean closer. They were alone in the private room, but Gudrin leaned forward as he suggested to hear his whispers. She respected the need for quiet talk.

  “That’s not what I was thinking, milady,” he said, shaking his head. “I mean the process is dangerous to you. Unacceptably so.”

  “Well,” said Gudrin, rocking her head back with another slug of ale. She winced as it went down. It was rotgut, through and through. “I’m just another of the Kindred. We can all be replaced, you know. I’m not afraid to face an enemy and burn him down—not even an enemy so strange as this one.”

  “That is the core of the problem,” Rorvik said. “You are not easy to replace. We could put a new monarch upon the throne in a day, I know. But you wield Pyros. No other Kindred had used one of the Jewels for so long and survived. I think you would be impossible to replace. What’s more, you are the only thing that allows us to destroy this menace with any speed and safety. If one of those things were to pop, just as you approached the open grave….”

  Gudrin stared at him. There was wisdom in his words, although she didn’t want to hear it. “You have a point,” she admitted. “Always it was the way of such things. If one builds a perfect weapon, it became too precious to wield, and is thus worse than useless, for now you must care for it and protect it.”

  “How can we best use such a unique power then?” Rorvik asked.

  “By not wielding it, but instead threatening to wield it. By frightening our enemies into a peaceful mood.”

  “But we can’t do that in this situation. These eggs of fluid growing in the earth—they can’t be frightened.”

  “No,” Gudrin said wearily. “Sixty you say?”

  “Sixty-one.”

  “Do you know how many bodies were buried here in the last war? Including elves, gnomes, Merlings, River Folk and Kindred?”

  Rorvik shook his head.

  “Ten thousand, easy. And we’ve no way of knowing where they are all buried. Or which of them have been infected.”

  Rorvik whitened and drank his ale quietly. Gudrin joined him, and they had a another round before she spoke again.

  “We’ll assemble a team of Workers and Mechnicians. I’ll have them bring down a few of the crawlers from their berths beneath Snowdon. They will have to catch new elementals to stoke their boilers.”

  “What will they do, my Queen?”

  “They will continue to open these wounds one at a time and cauterize them. In the meantime, I’m going to evacuate all the civilians of Gronig. All the other surface towns and trading posts are to be abandoned by good working Kindred as well. We’ll tell everyone it is temporary. A precautionary edict from the crown.”

  Rorvik stared at her. “Are things as bad as that?”

  She nodded slowly. “I fear so. I’ve been reading the accounts in the Teret of such strange events in the past. There has been a rash of strange happenings all around Cymru, you know. I fear the Dead are on the move again—as they have not been for many centuries.”

  “What shall we do if they all rise?”

  “Why, we shall do as our ancestors did!” she exclaimed. “We shall retreat within our mountain fortresses and ride out the storm. After all, why do you think our ancestors dug so deep?”

  Chapter Twelve

  The Dungeons Deep

  Brand and his party followed Grasty deep into the earth. The stairway continued for a hundred paces or more, until it broadened out into a large chamber. The ceiling was held up here with squat stone pillars. The group of five spread out to explore the space, which was as wide as a keep’s great hall. Brand held his lantern high and looked about with unease. He’d not had positive experiences with underground warrens like these. There was an archway on the northern wall with stairs going downward, but the stairway had been collapsed. Piles of rubble filled the arch. He saw no obvious way of continuing their exploration.

  Brand noticed Telyn was studying the stone floor. “Anything interesting?” he asked her.

  She pointed here and there. “Droppings and marks in the dust that look like rat-prints, but nothing larger.”

  Brand nodded reassured. “I don’t see a row of sarcophagi, at least,” he said to Grasty.

  The Kindred foreman ignored him. He busied himself by running his rough fingers over a dusty wall. He muttered to himself, poking and tapping as he went. Brand walked to his side.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Eh? Well, I’m not sure exactly. This place was once used as a giant cellar. A place to store foodstuffs and the like.”

  Brand nodded. “Sensible enough. I’m surprised it’s not flooded.”

  “Oh, there are flooded areas, but the drainage system works here, at least. If you were to crank those three big wheels over on the south wall it should allow the flood into the lower levels. In fact, if you just drove a tunnel from this chamber southward, within thirty yards you’d be swimming in mud.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Is this all there is to see?” asked Puck, the look on his face reminded Brand of a man smelling fresh manure. He ran his fingers over one of the three big wheels Grasty had indicated. He did not look impressed.

  “No, this isn’t all, not by a long shot!” shouted Grasty, working on one of the pillars now, still tapping and scratching. “Before were done here, the prissiest elf in the castle will be impressed, mark my words. We’ll be moving on shortly.”

  Brand put his hand to his mouth, covering a smirk. Puck and Kaavi were, of course, the only elves in the castle.

  “Why didn’t you tell us this place led to a dead end?” asked Puck.

  “Because, we want to go deeper.”

  Puck shook his head in bewilderment. Brand shrugged. Grasty heard his own thoughts, not necessarily the questions of others.

  “There is no exit downward,” Puck pointed out, speaking as if Grasty were a child.

  Grasty chuckled and shook his head. “Not right now, there isn’t. And it might not lead directly down—not at first.”

  He moved around to the southern wall, still tapping and muttering.

  “You said there was mud in that direction,” Telyn said to him.

  Grasty squinted up at her. “Good ears you’ve got,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. “The mud is there, but only if we go about a hundred feet or so in this direction. I don’t plan to go so far.”

  “I’m sure Grasty is looking for a stairway or some—”