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  Corran rushed toward him, crushing him in a hug that made Rigan wince. In the next moment, his brother had pushed him away and grabbed him by the shoulders, knocking the hat from his head.

  “Where in the name of the gods have you been? We’ve been searching for you for more than a day!”

  “I stopped at The Lame Dragon for a drink with Wil and Donn, and Wil got drunk. There was trouble with some guards and they chased us. One of them caught me and roughed me up. Knocked me out. It took this long for me to feel decent enough to try to make it home.” He hated lying to Corran, but Damian had impressed on him the need for secrecy. What he doesn’t know can’t be gotten out of him by the guards. He’s safer this way.

  “Wil is dead,” Corran said, eyes blazing. “Donn came here, to see if you’d returned. He told me what happened.”

  Rigan felt suddenly weak and sank down into a chair. “Wil’s dead? He was way ahead of the guards the last time I saw him.”

  “Yeah, well, there were more guards. I buried him this morning. Dammit, Rigan! I spent the night and half of today looking for your body, figuring I was going to have to bury you too.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? If I wasn’t so glad to see you alive, I’d kill you myself for what you put us through! Don’t do that to me again.”

  “Where’s Kell?”

  “Out looking for you, while he does his usual rounds,” Corran replied, running a hand back through his hair. “Where were you?”

  “I tried to hide in an abandoned building, but the guard found me and knocked me around pretty hard.” Rigan let the cloak fall, exposing his neck. Corran stared at the bruises on his throat and jaw.

  “I passed out. When I woke up, I tried to find my way through the cellars, and ended up Below. I really must have taken more of a beating than I thought, because I passed out again. I had to sleep it off and eat before I was up to making it back.” That’s almost what happened.

  “I don’t know what’s worse, trying to outrun the guards or being fool enough to go Below.” Corran shook his head. “But I’m glad you’re back.”

  “So am I. Tell me what happened to Wil.”

  Corran recounted Rendan’s story, as well as Donn’s harrowing escape. “Kell and I took turns looking for you,” Corran concluded. His gaze lingered again on Rigan’s throat. “Kell can make a poultice for those bruises. And then there’s the regular work to catch up on, since I went out looking for your sorry ass instead of taking care of the dead.”

  “Getting back to work would be really good,” Rigan said, glad for the distraction. “I might not move as fast as usual, but I can get started on that right away.” He paused. “Thanks for looking for me.”

  Corran clapped him on the shoulder, and Rigan winced. “You might not be so grateful after Kell gives you a piece of his mind. Where did you get those clothes?”

  “Stole them,” Rigan replied, hanging the cloak and hat on a peg. “The guard made a bloody mess of my clothing.” He winced as he brought his arm down. “Ribs aren’t in great shape, and my throat hurts like a son of a bitch.”

  “Well, we’ll take it easy,” Corran said. “Now, let’s get to work.”

  Rigan fell into the familiar routine—an old man with a bad heart; a trader who had choked on a piece of meat; an elderly woman felled by a stroke; a dock hand who had fallen into the harbor and drowned. None of them violent deaths, all mourned by someone able to pay the burial fee.

  Rigan wished that the rhythm of the work would help to keep his thoughts from replaying the past two days, but he could not banish his anxiety. It could have been me on this table, like Wil. I know what it cost Corran and me to prepare Mama’s body, when she was killed. I wouldn’t have wished that on my brothers, having to do the same for me.

  The back door opened a candlemark later. “Nothing,” Kell said, not bothering to look up as he entered. “Didn’t find a damn thing.”

  Corran cleared his throat, loudly.

  Kell raised his head, and stared at Rigan as if he had seen a ghost. He tried to remain stoic, but a broad grin spread across his face even as tears brimmed in his eyes. “You’re back? You’re alive!”

  “A little worse for wear,” Rigan admitted.

  Kell eyed the livid bruises on his throat and face. “Guards?”

  Rigan nodded. His brother looked torn between taking a swing at him and embracing him in overwhelming relief. He stood still for a moment, then headed upstairs without another word.

  “You’re in for it now,” Corran said with a sideways glance. “The last time Kell looked that angry, he didn’t speak to me for two weeks.”

  Rigan glared after Kell. “Am I supposed to be sorry I’m not dead?”

  Corran’s hand came down on his shoulder so hard Rigan froze, expecting a blow. “Don’t say that, ever. Kell helped me with Wil’s body, and he thought I didn’t see him crying. Last night hit him hard. Give him time; he really thought you were gone.”

  Rigan looked up the stairs after Kell, struggling against a wave of remorse. I shouldn’t have left Wil, even if he looked like he was doing all right. Maybe if I’d stayed with him, I could have made a difference. Maybe he’d still be alive.

  He roused himself from his thoughts, realizing Corran watched him with an appraising stare.

  “If you’re feeling guilty about Wil, stop. What happened to you three wasn’t right. You should have been able to get home safely. And if you’d stayed with him, you’d be dead for sure.”

  Rigan looked away, certain Corran could read too much from his expression. “Part of me knows that,” he said in a rough voice. “But the rest of me thinks that part is lying.”

  All his life, Rigan had watched and helped with the preparation of the dead. He had watched his father and uncles work their grave magic, sending spirits into the After and dispelling restless ghosts. He and Corran had long ago learned the rituals for themselves. That kind of magic felt second nature to him, but he had never considered the idea that the power could take any other form. Now, as he helped Corran ready the corpses, he wondered how he had ever been so blind.

  Rigan focused on their preparations. Ancient lore and ritual dictated every step, and undertakers fulfilled a priestly vocation in helping the departed safely reach the Golden Shores. Rigan could feel the magic thrumming in every syllable as he spoke over the dead, crackling along his raw nerves like lightning, burning through his veins. He had never felt so acutely aware of anything in his life, and it terrified him.

  He fetched the basin of herb-infused water Kell prepared for them every morning. As he bathed the corpse, the smell of hyssop and rosemary, lily and mint filled Rigan’s nostrils and he thought back to his apprenticeship. Corran knows my magic is stronger than his— that’s why he fights the ghosts and lets me handle the wardings. Mama worked with me on the rituals, teaching me how to make the banishing circle. She told me once that her grandmother was a Wanderer witch-woman, but swore me to secrecy. Did Mama know my magic could do more? And if she did, when in the name of the Dark Places did she intend to tell me?

  Guilt flashed, white-hot and searing. She didn’t expect to die young. Probably thought she had plenty of time to ease me into it. And Kell—he’s only fourteen. My ritual magic didn’t even come to me until I was a little older than that. So there’s no way to tell if he’ll inherit her abilities, too. And if it’s Wanderer blood that’s given me this, could they—would they—teach me to handle it so I don’t kill someone by accid—

  “I said, hand me the pigment.”

  Rigan started and looked up to find Corran staring at him. Concern, not anger, filled his brother’s gaze, but Rigan felt his face flush and he ducked his head, hurrying to comply. “Sorry. Just a little… preoccupied.” Thankfully, Corran let it go, and Rigan struggled to keep his concentration on the task at hand.

  Marking the bodies with sacred symbols on the face and torso came next. Their father had explained it once as a signal to the gods, a way for the spirit t
o find its path, and to be welcomed. Kell mixed the pigments fresh each morning, depending on the number of bodies to be prepared. Corran and Rigan daubed the sigils on the corpses with their thumbs, using a brush where needed to avoid contagion.

  Blue woad, black soot, white chalk, and orange ochre. As Rigan drew the sigils, he felt a frisson of magic, an echo of the terrible power that had welled up inside him and burst forth with lethal strength. Once the bodies had been marked, Corran and Rigan wrapped the corpses in shrouds. Regardless of how plain or elaborate the shrouding, the process again followed strict steps, accompanied by ritual and chanting. The latter fell to Corran, as the oldest. Rigan had never minded, since he always thought his brother had a better voice for it. Tonight, the chants sent a shiver down his spine, connecting with something deep inside him that threatened to well up—powerful and volatile. Rigan clamped down on the power, terrified of what might happen if it slipped his grasp.

  I’m a danger to everyone like this. I’ve got to figure out how to get back Below and train, but I can’t imagine my brothers are going to let me out of their sight for a long while.

  Damian said I nearly died because I drew on my life force. That blast took a lot of power, but these markings need just a flicker. Is that what we’re really doing in these old rituals, sending off the dead with a last, faint flicker of borrowed life? No wonder we’re so tired by the end of each day. Gods above! And I thought it was from digging graves!

  Rigan and Corran were finished with their work by the time Kell called them to supper. Stewed chicken with carrots and parsnips had never smelled better, and Rigan’s stomach growled as he watched his brother ladle the food into bowls.

  “I heard that Wil’s uncle went storming up to the Guild Hall today,” Kell said. “From what people are saying, Rendan demanded that the Farriers’ Guild bring a formal complaint to the Lord Mayor, and press murder charges against the guards.”

  Corran sighed. “That probably didn’t go well.”

  Kell shook his head. “If Rendan wasn’t so highly thought of within the Guild, he’d have probably ended up in the Mayor’s dungeon. As it happened, the Guild had him escorted from the premises and made noises about him being ‘mad with grief.’”

  Rigan could just imagine the hotheaded farrier demanding justice. The Guild could not risk doing anything that might offend the Merchant Princes or run afoul of the Lord Mayor, who brokered the trade negotiations with the other city-states in the League, the agreements on which they all depended for their livelihood.

  “It’s just like the monsters,” Rigan said. “A few people dead here, a few more there, but so long as it’s no one wealthy, Lord Mayor Machison and the Guild Masters have more important things to do.”

  “Did you hear something?” Kell asked, asked with feigned confusion. “For a moment there, I thought I heard a voice.”

  “Stop it, Kell,” Corran chided. “You’re being childish.”

  Kell fixed him with a black look. “I’m being childish? He runs off and nearly gets his damn fool self killed and scares us both half to death, and I’m just supposed to get over it?” Kell smacked his hands down on the table with a flushed expression, like he might explode with rage or burst into tears.

  “We didn’t go looking for trouble,” Rigan said, abashed at how his absence had affected Kell. “It’s not a crime to get drunk. Wil didn’t deserve what happened to him. None of us did. You know how the guards can be.”

  “They’re fearsome warriors, except when there are monsters to be fought,” Corran muttered.

  “How many bodies have we buried of people who got on the wrong side of the guards, Rigan?” Kell said. “I saw what they did to Wil. I helped Corran prepare him—”

  “Kell—” Rigan began.

  “And you know what, Rigan?” Kell shouted. “I didn’t see Wil on that table. I saw you.” Tears glistened in his eyes; anger and fear made him tremble. “So I don’t care whether or not you and your friends have a right to be out. You have a responsibility to stay alive.” The fury had run its course, and Kell suddenly looked young and frightened. “Please, Rigan? I don’t want to go through that again.”

  Rigan looked down. “I’m sorry. I really am. I’ll be careful—I promise.”

  Liar, Rigan’s thoughts taunted. You haven’t told them you killed someone with your magic. Or that if you don’t want to become a monster, you’re going to have to keep sneaking away to Below. Who’s going to catch on first to the lies? Kell and Corran… or the guards?

  Chapter Six

  “STOP, THIEF!”

  Kell Valmonde didn’t bother glancing behind him as he wove through the press of the marketplace crowd, intent on escape. He squeezed around a vendor, nearly toppling his stall in the process, and then dodged behind a heavily-laden cart horse. Screened from view, he quickly pulled a hat from his pack and jammed it on his head, tucking his hair underneath, and turned his jacket inside-out.

  The fact that Kell had not committed any crime would make no difference to the guards. Nor would they believe that the cranky merchant was just angry that Kell refused to pay his exorbitant prices. Regardless, if he was caught, he risked a beating or worse.

  But if he could elude the guards, all would be forgotten by the time he returned to tomorrow’s market. Kell debated who enjoyed the blood sport more, the merchant or the guards.

  He grabbed his pack and kept moving as the shouts of the Mayor’s guards echoed around the marketplace. Short, thin, and wiry, Kell could move through the maze of stalls, rickety pushcarts, and wandering hucksters with ease. The market buzzed with voices in a jumble of languages: friends called out greetings, merchants haggled with buyers, and whores promised paradise. Goats bleated, chickens squawked, dogs barked, and horses whinnied.

  Kell plowed right into a heavyset man in the whites of a cook from a noble house, nearly taking them both off their feet. “Sorry, pardon,” he muttered as he veered away, ignoring the man’s oaths. He turned sideways, taking advantage of his slim build to weave his way between shoppers.

  “Over there!” a guard shouted, signaling to a second guard, who searched the crowd with a puzzled expression. The cook yelled and gestured towards Kell, setting the guards back on his path.

  Kell slipped on a piece of garbage that nearly sent him sprawling, before righting himself and hurrying on.

  “In here!” hissed Betan, the fishmonger, waving Kell over, and he dodged behind the long wooden table wet with sea water and fish entrails. He tore his hat and jacket off and shoved them into his pack, then grabbed a knife and started gutting fish, whistling nonchalantly when the guard came by. Kell kept his head down as the man barked a question at Betan. The fishmonger shrugged, palms raised, and replied in his thick southlands dialect. He smiled and offered the guard a fresh fish. The guard cursed and walked away, shaking his head.

  “You’re pretty good at that,” Betan said when the guard was out of sight, gesturing to Kell’s handiwork. “Maybe I’ll give you a job someday.”

  “And maybe someday I’ll take you up on that offer,” Kell said, setting the knife aside. “Right now, I need to get home and cook dinner. My brothers are cranky when they’re hungry.”

  Betan chuckled. “No doubt. Here.” He handed Kell a large fish. “Take this. I still owe you on Catiana’s burial. Tell your brothers it was caught fresh today; worth two crowns on my debt.”

  Kell put the fish in his bag. “Looks good. Thanks.”

  Betan shrugged. “Hey, a good deed is never wasted. Figure it helps maintain the Balance, right? Your brothers did me a good turn, I pay my debts. Now go, before the guards come.”

  Kell slipped out the back of the stall, staying in the shadows of a narrow alley. Ravenwood’s wynds and closes wound maze-like around the Old Market, dirty and full of garbage. Strange sigils chalked on the walls suggested that Wanderers came this way. He paused to look at one of the chalked symbols and wondered what it meant. Do the Wanderers use them to mark safe routes? Is it some kind of m
essage, or a way to indicate territory? Why do they bother?

  “It’s not for you.”

  Kell startled, wondering where the old woman had come from. Bent and wrinkled, skin weathered by the sun, she had the look of one of the Wanderers.

  “What’s not for me?” Kell asked.

  “The message in the sigils. Not for you.” The old woman came a step closer, squinting closely at Kell. “Yet you have the blood, don’t you, boy?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  A crafty smile touched the old woman’s lips. “Wanderer blood. I can smell it in you. Not strong; half-breed or less.” She frowned, concentrating. “But you don’t have the power, not yet. Though it’s touched you. Clings to you like dust. Maybe when you’re older.”

  “Are those curse signs?” Kell got up the nerve to ask.

  The old woman croaked a laugh. “Curse signs? Sometimes. Depends on the message to be sent. Not always.” She gave him a canny look. “Some are, some aren’t. The less you know, the better for you.”

  “Then let me pass.”

  Kell hoped his voice sounded defiant. He saw the Wanderers often in the marketplace, selling an assortment of wares. Some of them played music and danced for the coins thrown by passers-by, while others read omens from cards or tea leaves. The guards drove the Wanderers off, but they always came back.

  The old woman cocked her head, taking his measure. “I see fire and loss in your future, boy. Best you take care.”

  “Let me pass.”

  “As you wish. Mark my words.”

  Kell waited until the old woman had hobbled away, before checking that the alley was clear. He climbed a trellis up the wall of a house to a balcony, and then hoisted himself onto the roof. Kell stayed low as he maneuvered to the edge of the rooftop to get a clear view of the harbor.

  From up here, Kell could look out across the water and imagine what it must be like aboard one of the ships berthed at the crowded wharves—tall-masted trading ships unloading their cargo; fishing vessels setting out before first light, returning heavy with their catch. At a particularly opulent dock, the pleasure barges of the nobles and Merchant Princes sat awaiting their leisure.