The sober Oliveran envoy was a younger man, not yet thirty. He stepped forward. “I’ll see them safe, Ambassador. You have my word.”
“Brisa is indebted to you.” The ambassador bowed. “May God grant your honor many years.”
“And yours.” Lord Ventillas returned the bow, deep and formal.
Within minutes, a much smaller cortege prepared to ride. Mari stopped her mare as close to the ambassador as she dared. “Father.”
The ambassador stood with a dying guard at his feet. Jehan heard him say, very softly, “Mari, you are your father’s heart. Be brave, my girl, for me.”
Jehan could bear to watch no longer. She spurred her horse down the ancient road lined with cypress. Tears blinded her. She did not look back to see those she had left behind. She did not look back to see if her friend would follow. All their lives, where Jehan went, Mari always followed.
1
One Year Later
When it came to the dead, it was best to pretend he did not see them. This Cas had learned the hard way, early on, when the plague had struck and the bodies lay blanketed around him. And as he crossed the bridge, the ghost keeping pace by his side, it became clear he would have to pretend harder. This particular spirit was growing suspicious.
Cas knew him. His name was Izaro. In life, he had guarded the bridge just beyond Cas’ ancestral lands. A grizzled toll keeper with a black beard that tumbled down his chest. Nearly as solid as any living creature. So Izaro was gone too. Who was left?
“Boy?” Izaro said, a question spoken hard and rough. He had caught Cas unawares, appearing from behind a tree near the foot of the bridge. Cas had not been able to hide his expression in time, and Izaro had seen something—an awareness, a recognition—that had made him wonder.
A chill hung in the early morning air, accompanied by the blustery winds of autumn. Cas did not alter his stride. He pulled his cloak tighter about him and glanced down into the river with its rapid westward current. His breathing remained even, his expression bland. If his heart beat faster than usual, no one knew but him.
The horse was another matter. She followed behind Cas, led by reins. A pretty white mare with a black star below her right eye, placid enough until Izaro’s appearance. Then her steps shied. She tugged at the reins and swung her head in clear agitation. Did she see Izaro? Or merely sense him?
Cas said mildly, “What’s the matter, girl? Tired? We’re almost home.”
“You see me, boy?”
Cas yawned. They had reached the center of the bridge. Izaro stopped even as Cas and the horse continued on. Good. The toll keeper had been fooled. Behind him, Cas heard a muttered “Bah. Dumb as a sack full of cats. Just like his mother.”
Cas froze. An instant, only. It was enough. Izaro whisked around to stand before Cas. He threw out his arms, triumphant.
“You do see me! I knew it!”
Cas snarled, “Get out of my way.” He shifted right. The toll keeper blocked his path. He shifted left. The same. Cas would not go through him, though it was possible. He had done so once, would never forget the repugnant feeling of it, like worms twisting around his innards. It had sent him to his knees, retching onto the dirt.
Thwarted, Cas drew himself up to his full height and glared. He was eighteen, away from home these three years past, and in that time he had grown tall enough to meet the toll keeper’s gaze full on. They were both startled by it.
“What do you want?” Cas demanded.
“What do I—? How can you see me?”
“I don’t know.”
It was a question Cas had asked himself many times. If others could see spirits, he did not know this, either. It was not something one asked, ever, or freely admitted to if you knew what was good for you. There were places for the mad, none of them pleasant. “Is that all? Then, good day to you, toll keeper.” He waited for Izaro to take the hint and move aside.
Izaro did not budge. Now that he had Cas’ attention, he appeared uncertain as to what to do next. The wind whipped Cas’ black hair up and around in every direction. In contrast, Izaro’s beard lay unmoving against his chest. The seconds ticked by. Finally, it was Cas who spoke. He did not want to ask, but he was desperate to know.
“Have you seen my brother?” The tremble in his voice was humiliating.
“No.” Something like pity crossed Izaro’s features. “Not for a year. Not since the pestilence. No one comes by here anymore.”
Cas had not truly expected an answer. He stepped aside. This time Izaro let him pass, much to the horse’s relief, but moments later, Cas heard him speak quietly.
“Will you bury me?”
Cas stopped. He spoke without turning. “You insult my mother’s memory, and you expect me to do this for you?”
“Bah. I only said it to chafe you—”
Cas shot a look over his shoulder. “Well, it worked.”
“Lord Cassiapeus . . .” Cas grimaced upon hearing his birth name. Izaro did not notice. He was looking to the opposite end of the bridge, where a stone cottage stood off to one side. For centuries, it had served as a place where the toll keepers worked and slept. “No one has been to tend to me. The animals have come.”
His words produced a grisly assortment of images in Cas’ mind. Reluctantly, he eyed the cottage. Part of the thatched roof had fallen in. Something that would never have occurred had Izaro been alive. The door stood wide open, knocked free of its upper hinges so that it hung askew from its lower.
The animals have come.
“Please,” Izaro added.
Cas inspected his hands. Scarred, callused. Hands accustomed to burying the dead. He had hoped to be done with it. “You have a shovel?”
The relief on Izaro’s face shamed him. Cas turned away and pretended he did not see.
Izaro had been dead for many months. Long enough that the worst of the smell had gone, along with most of his flesh and innards, gnawed away by forest creatures.
From the doorway, Cas surveyed the chamber. An abacus and ledger sat on a table covered in dust. Part of the ledger had been chewed away. Animal droppings littered the floor, the rug, the windowsill. Rats and birds by the look of them. A bed and chair had been placed in a corner. Izaro walked past Cas to collapse onto the chair, and they both stared at the body on the bed. Cas had seen worse. He guessed Izaro had not.
“The shovel?” Cas prompted quietly.
“Out back.”
“Where”—Cas gestured toward the bed—“is your preference? The village?”
“Too far,” Izaro replied, unable to take his eyes off what was left of him. “Anywhere. Just . . .” His voice broke. “Not here.”