Stop it, Myrrh. She grits her teeth and takes a deep breath. This is not the time.

  With the birdsong overhead and the rushing of the water drifting from around the cottage, it’s almost peaceful in Vera’s little clearing. A few hours spent here, and Myrrh could almost forget the bloody fight by the riverbank. But for now, the horror is still lurking in her gut.

  With a sip of tea, she puts on a calm-but-curious mask and turns her attention back to Vera. “When you say you’ve been writing, does that mean he knows something’s wrong in Craghold? For that matter, can you tell us what’s happening? On the way here—”

  “Nab told me you were attacked,” the woman says, her face darkening. “It’s likely they were working in this area because they heard rumors I was hiding nearby. I apologize.”

  “Will someone come looking for them?”

  The woman’s brow furrows as she thinks. “If Bartholomew knew for certain that I’d hid in this area, he would’ve sent determined searchers. Assigning woodcutters to this section of forest likely allowed him to keep watch without squandering resources. As it stands, the men won’t be missed until later this evening. And I have…friends that can help me move the bodies so they aren’t discovered.”

  “Bartholomew?”

  “I’ll explain shortly. Does anyone but Ned know you came this way?”

  Myrrh shakes her head. “Not unless we were followed.”

  “Good. As far as I know, Ned still has a grip on himself. He won’t betray you. Still, I don’t suggest you remain long. Not in Pineshadow or anywhere near Craghold, and neither should you dally too long speaking to me—I’ll need to gather my things and relocate before evening.”

  Myrrh shifts, not sure how to respond to that. “It was a long journey to reach Pineshadow, and I still have much to accomplish.”

  A faintly amused smile touches the woman’s lips. “So I hear. Two of the last pigeons I received before fleeing were messages sent from Dominic to the old castellan—ordinarily I wouldn’t have read private communication, but the mood in the hold had already turned. Dominic said that you were coming to gain an acquaintance with his ancestral home, seeing as you’ll be marrying into it.”

  “I…” Myrrh feels the heat in her cheeks, finding it surprisingly difficult to keep up the facade of the engagement.

  Vera snorts in amusement. “Yes, I know you aren’t engaged. Dominic—Glint—has told me some things about his life now. He mentions you often, but not as his betrothed.”

  “What does he say?”

  “I wouldn’t dare share a young man’s secrets, especially with the woman they involve. But I am aware that you’ve been playing the role of his fiancée while he tries to relieve Ostgard’s greediest merchants of their fortunes.”

  The stool is rather low to the ground, bringing Myrrh’s knees level with the bottom of her ribcage when she sets her feet flat. When she tries to adjust her position, it rocks up onto a single leg. Tea sloshes over the rim of her cup.

  Nab has been staring with fascination at the caged pigeon, but now he laughs. “I bet he told you she’s graceful too. I like Glint, but he is kind of a lying scoundrel.”

  Myrrh shoots the boy a glare, but she can’t put much ice into it. The fact that he’s able to tease her makes her hopeful that he’ll move past the fight at the river.

  “So you don’t know why I’m really here then?” Myrrh asks.

  Vera shakes her head. “But I’ve been hoping you would find me. Dominic says you’re a clever woman. I couldn’t leave word for you because it’s impossible to know who to trust in Pineshadow anymore. Ned I was still fairly certain of. Enough that when he asked my son how to find me—”

  “Wait. I thought your son was riding to another town to find a bird keeper,” Myrrh says.

  “He was.” Vera grimaces. “Returned yesterday. It seems Bartholomew was ahead of me. The birds in a day’s ride in either direction have been poisoned.”

  Myrrh grimaces and inspects the woman for a moment. “Seeing as you’re aware I’m not engaged to the heir to Craghold—and since Glint told you Hawk was a friend—I guess there’s no harm in telling you the true story. Something happened to Hawk while he was locked in Craghold’s dungeon. I need to understand what. It’s…important.”

  “Hmm,” Vera says before pausing to sip her tea. “Well, I have a theory.”

  “You saw how he changed?”

  The woman nods. “Came in spitting and kicking, left like he was walking in his sleep. I’ve been thinking about that since.”

  “Does your theory involve the oathbinding magic?”

  The woman sits up straighter. “Now that is surprising. I didn’t think anyone else would draw the conclusion. What led you to it?”

  Myrrh shakes her head. “Not me. It came from a man. A…thief.” She pauses, waiting for a reaction from the woman. Given what Vera has said, she seems aware that not all Glint’s endeavors are strictly legal, but she may not fully grasp the extent of his villainy. When Vera says nothing, Myrrh continues, “We had a rash of unexplained deaths in Ostgard, and this man, Rattle, believed they were the work of something called a Death Cloak. Supposedly, this being enters the world through a gateway formed when a person’s spirit becomes severed from their body. He believed that happened to Hawk during his stay in Craghold.”

  Holding her teacup lightly in the fingertips of both hands, Vera lets her eyes go distant, as if thinking. “Severed. Yes, I suppose that could happen.”

  Myrrh nods. “I came to learn what I can about the magic in hopes I can fix Hawk.”

  “I see.”

  “Can you help me?”

  “Well,” the woman says, “the truth is, oathbinding magic hadn’t been used in more than a century—”

  “Wait, what?” Myrrh says, unable to help herself from interrupting. “But what about the Scythe? She’s bound to Glint’s family.”

  Vera holds up a hand as if asking for patience. “She is indeed oathbound to serve the Evenescuel family line. The vow passed from her father when he died. An oath of fealty from one family to another is the most powerful of the bindings that were in use during the centuries when the magic was practiced, which is why it endured even after the practice faded.”

  “But you think someone is using the magic again?”

  Vera nods. She glances over the treetops and grimaces. Myrrh turns to look. The sky has darkened again, promising more rain by evening.

  The bird keeper shakes her head. “Hate this season. Anyway, to understand oathbinding, it would probably help for you to hear a brief history of the Crags region. For the last century, the families who owned the three major holdfasts, Craghold, Spireloft, and The Stone, have needed to look outside the region in search of wealth and power—that’s the reason Dominic’s father took his family to Ostgard in search of merchant contracts. Aside from small tracts of land surrounding the fortresses, the families have no claim on any resources in the area. Just securing enough coin to employ castle staff from the nearby towns has sometimes been a struggle for the families.”

  “It can’t have always been that way though,” Myrrh says. Her tea is growing cold, and she takes a few sips to try to finish it more quickly.

  After another glance at the sky, Vera nods to Myrrh’s companions. “As I mentioned, I don’t think it would be wise for me to stay here after your…encounter with the woodcutters. I should be gathering my things now, but Myrrh needs to hear this story…”

  Warrell is immediately on his feet. “How would you like them packed?”

  “I won’t be able to take everything today. There’s a rucksack inside the door. If you’ll be so kind, I’ll need my bedroll and clothing. After that, whatever will fit from the food stores. I’ll send someone back to fetch more if it seems safe. It would help if the rest of my possessions were gathered in one place.”

  Myrrh casts a glance at Nab, expecting the boy to complain about the assignment. He seems to be fighting the urge, but for once, he controls it and heads into the small lean-to without a word.

  “For many centuries, the people of the Crags region worshiped a god named Shevan the Proud. It’s through him that the oaths have power, and the greatest bindings were granted to the most devout. The three fortresses were at constant war with one another, each lord vying to expand his territory and secure oaths from the greatest number of people. Particularly people who followed Shevan, because the power transfers from vassal to oathlord. The more oathbound followers, the more a particular lord could bind. Whenever a town was conquered, the priests forcibly transfer the oathbindings of the citizens from the old lord to the new. It was a bloody era in the Crags with many settlements changing hands multiple times a year.”

  “So an oathbinding isn’t made by choice?” Myrrh asks.

  “As far as I understand, that was the original custom. Commoners swore fealty to their lord in hopes that by joining with a greater organization, they would gain more security for their settlements and families. The problems arose when roads began to connect the Crags settlements and horses were introduced into the region. At that point, the territory controlled by each of the holdfasts started to feel small, and their lords began to look beyond their former boundaries. The practice of forced oathbinding probably started slowly, but in the end, it was rampant.”

  Myrrh grimaces and shakes her head. It doesn’t sound so different from the syndicates in Ostgard. Kingpins and crime bosses always want more than they have.

  “So what ended the practice?”

  “In the end, the priests tired of the bloodshed. They refused to transfer any more oaths, and some even began searching for a means to sever the ties.”

  Immediately, Myrrh sits up straighter. “Did they find a way? If Hawk’s condition is due to an oathbinding, is it possible to have a priest undo it?”

  Vera casts her an apologetic look. “If a means to free a person of an oath was found, it wasn’t widely used. Most people remained bound to their oathlord until their death. But since most of the bindings were simple vows of fealty, not the more powerful bond between families, which holds Meredith still, and because the priests refused to bind more people against their will, eventually the oaths passed from the world. Belief in Shevan the Proud waned to almost nothing. Apparently, though, some semblance of the priesthood remained, and somehow, Bartholomew found them.”

  “So now am I going to get to hear who this Bartholomew is?”

  The elderly bird keeper smirks. “I give you credit for patience. Bartholomew is the son of the old castellan. When his father dies, he is to inherit care of Craghold. For all the years that Dominic’s father was away in Ostgard acting as Maire, Bartholomew’s father has been managing the affairs of the fortress. And since the Maire’s only heir had disappeared in his teens following the death of his mother, most people assumed the castellan—or Bartholomew if his father had already died at that point—would inherit Craghold upon Dominic’s father’s death.”

  Myrrh finishes her last swallow of tea, which is now rather cold. “But then Glint resurfaced.”

  Vera nods. “In talking with Dominic via letters, I understand the relationship with his father is rather strained. But we didn’t know that in Craghold.”

  “All you knew was that the family line was restored, and the castellan would not be inheriting the fortress.”

  “Exactly. We learned Dominic had returned to Ostgard shortly after your friend Hawk was shoved into our dungeon—after years of using the cells to store root vegetables, it was quite a surprise to have a prisoner. Anyway, this is the part of my story that goes from history to theory…I think that the news of Dominic’s return drove Bartholomew to seek out priests with knowledge of oathbinding and Shevan. Unfortunately, I have no proof. But it seems a likely explanation for the recent changes in Craghold and the town. Shortly before people began acting strangely, a group of three men arrived at Craghold. Bartholomew insisted they be given private rooms and that no one but he or his father be allowed to speak with them. In the weeks since, I’ve concluded they were probably the priests.”

  Myrrh sets the cup on the spongy ground beside her stool. Inside the lean-to, something clatters as it falls to the floor.

  “How can you tell if someone is oathbound?”

  Vera shakes her head. “That’s part of the problem. It’s difficult to be certain because the binding doesn’t steal their wits or even change much about their personality except when it comes to loyalty to their oathlord. In that they become irrationally devoted.”

  “That’s why the woodcutters attacked when they thought we were a threat to Craghold,” Myrrh says.

  Vera nods. “I suspect so. But if they’d been clever, as some of the oathbound are, they would’ve hidden their reaction long enough to find out more about your purpose. Given what I understand of your…trade, I’m sure you know the value in disguising your loyalties. That’s why it’s so difficult to know who to trust in Pineshadow. If my theory is right, and Bartholomew has resurrected the oathbinding magic, anyone could be in thrall to the castellan’s son. But only the least clever would let it be known.”

  Myrrh grimaces, understanding the difficulty now. It’s similar to the challenge of dealing with the unscrupulous criminals in Ostgard’s underworld. Anything someone says could be a lie. In the case of Pineshadow, the deceit would be calculated to protect Bartholomew and Craghold’s interests.

  “So what do you think this has to do with Hawk? He doesn’t seem loyal to this Bartholomew. He doesn’t seem loyal to anything.”

  Vera casts her eyes down and clasps her hands on her lap. “Oathbinding was a lost art for many years. I suspect Bartholomew and his priests had to experiment until they could perform it properly. The arrival of a prisoner likely presented an ideal opportunity. None of us knew your friend Hawk, so no one was paying attention to what befell him. If other strange things hadn’t started happening, I probably would have thought nothing of his transformation. I’m sorry.”

  Myrrh’s chest feels hollow at the thought of Hawk enduring Bartholomew’s experiments. She takes a few deep breaths. The clamor inside the lean-to slows, and soon, Warrell ducks out the door with a packed rucksack.

  “Glint doesn’t know any of this?” Myrrh asks.

  Vera shakes her head. “On the morning I escaped Craghold, I woke to find my pigeons dead in their cages.” She nods toward the single bird on its wooden perch. “I spied this one circling the hold, unsure whether to land without seeing me below. Archers were on the walls taking aim, and an arrow got her through the wing. I was fortunate to have seen where she fell and to have gotten there before Bartholomew’s people.”

  “Are there more inside the fortress now?”

  The bird keeper casts her a suspicious glance. “It’s likely more have arrived with messages, but I can’t say whether Bartholomew has let them live. If you think you can get in there and send a message, you’re sorely misinformed on bird keeping. They won’t fly for anyone but the keeper who raised them from hatchlings. At least, not if you wish your message to arrive at the proper destination.”

  “I figured as much but had to ask.” Myrrh takes a deep breath. “You’ve given me a lot to think about. After we leave today, is there some way I can contact you again?”

  Vera narrows her eyes yet again. “After all I just told you, you aren’t still determined to stay in Pineshadow, are you?”

  Myrrh rubs a hand over her knee. “I don’t know. I need to consider carefully what to do next. Many lives depend on it.”

  “Dominic did say you were stubborn.”

  “The truth is, I’d much rather be back in my Rat Town safe house. But the issue with the Death Cloak is rather serious.”

  Vera purses her lips. “I doubt you’ll learn much more here.”

  “But I feel I should try.”

  The old woman sighs. “Well, before I forget, there is one other thing.”

  “Oh?”

  “Something Dominic said in the pair of letters he sent the old castellan. I don’t quite understand it, but maybe you will. He said the vial is phantom, one crystal beneath the tongue to dwindle to a ghost. Only once a season or you may cease to exist entirely.”

  Well, that’s a bit of good news at least. Despite everything, Myrrh fights the urge to smile. Before leaving, she asked Glint to help her identify the other Haava substances. Seems he had some success.

  “Thank you,” Myrrh says, artfully pretending not to see the curious expression on Vera’s face.

  After letting the silence linger, the woman sighs. “Around a hundred paces behind the blacksmith shop, there’s a tree with a hollow at head height. Leave a message for me there if you’d like to talk again. But please consider my warnings. Glint is fond of you, and he was dear to me once.”

  As much as Myrrh wants to assure the woman she’ll leave immediately, a faint idea has started to form. There are a few things she’d like to do before heading back to Ostgard. “A couple more questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “Have at it,” Vera says, gathering her teacup and the kettle.

  “It sounds like the best solution might be to simply…eliminate Bartholomew. Is there a problem with that idea?”

  The woman sighs. “In some ways, that’s the worst part of the oathbinding magic. If the oathlord dies without warning their vassals and asking them to carry the oathlord’s memory forward, few of the oathbound survive the shock. Those who do often lose their sanity. Some even take their own lives.”

  Myrrh grimaces. Better to live a somewhat normal life in servitude than be driven mad for lack of a master.

  “The oathbinding,” she says. “Do you know how the priests perform it?”

  “I believe it requires an incantation and strong faith in Shevan,” Vera says.

  Myrrh nods. “And you believe this group of three priests came to Craghold? They must still be there if townsfolk are being oathbound.”

  “Probably, but there have been many strange comings and goings. By now, more than three priests have been recruited to the cause, I fear.”

 

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