“Going to hell, am I?” He barely recognized his voice. “I’ll take you with me.”
But Cas had not died that day, or any day since. Of all the men by the bridge, he had been the only one to survive the plague.
“You’ve done this before.”
Izaro’s voice recalled him to the present. The toll keeper pointed at the shovel. “Grave digging. This is not your first time.”
Cas turned away. “No.”
“Where were you?”
“North.” Cas shoveled more dirt onto the growing mound. The grave could not be a shallow one. Six feet at least. Otherwise the animals would come sniffing and dig it up again.
“Where north?” Izaro prodded.
Cas did not answer. He wrestled a large rock free and set it aside. There was a small silence before Izaro observed, “You used to talk more.”
“And you less.”
A snort. What might have been a laugh. “You never told your brother what I did to you.”
“There was nothing to tell.”
“No?” Izaro returned with deep skepticism. “A toll keeper beating Lord Ventillas’ younger brother? I could have lost my life for that.”
The shovel hit another rock. Cas dug it out and tossed it away. “I might have deserved it.”
“Bah,” Izaro said, amused. “That you did.”
When Cas was eight or nine, as a prank, he’d unlocked the pen by Izaro’s cottage and set his chickens loose. Cas giggled behind tree cover as the toll keeper scrambled and swore, trying to catch his birds. Unfortunately, a number of chickens vanished into the woods and were lost forever. Cas had not considered that outcome. He had felt badly about it. Neither had he considered his clothing. The red tunic was easily spotted among the wild olive and pine. Izaro had chased him down in no time at all and tossed him over a knee. Cas had been forced to walk home, teary-eyed, for he had not been able to sit his horse. He had also kept the whole mortifying incident to himself.
Cas thought back to Izaro’s cottage. The small pen had been latched, the yard empty. “What happened to your chickens?”
Izaro muttered something incomprehensible.
Cas looked over his shoulder. “What?”
“A man came by. He took the toll. He took my chickens.”
Cas stopped digging. He turned around fully to stare at Izaro. “Were you . . . ?” He gestured at the open grave.
“Dead?” Izaro’s lips twisted. “Not yet. He came in long enough to hunt down the coin. Didn’t say a word to me. Wouldn’t give me water when I asked. Took my axe, too. Heard him tell his girl to gather up the birds.”
A picture came to Cas, of Izaro lying sick and helpless while looters took their fill. “Who was it?” he asked abruptly.
Izaro told him. A name Cas knew. He lived in Palmerin, if he still lived.
“Where did you keep the toll?” Cas asked.
“Under the floorboards.”
“How much was there?”
The amount he named made Cas’ eye twitch. These lands belonged to Lord Ruben, a neighbor, and Cas could think of only one reason why no one had come to look in on Izaro. To collect the tolls if nothing else. A hot, bitter lump curdled his gut. He asked a question he already knew the answer to. “Where is Lord Ruben?”
Izaro only shook his head.
“The family?”
“All gone.”
For so long the dead had been strangers. Or enemies. Lord Ruben had been neither. And if plague had reached its bony, blackened fingers this far into the mountains, what did that mean for his brother? Cas went back to digging. But after a time he looked at Izaro, gazing morosely down into the deepening pit, and asked, “Can you leave this place?”
“No. I have to stay near the river.”
“You’ve tried to go farther?”
A nod.
“What happens?”
“It starts to hurt here.” Izaro placed a hand over his heart. He glanced past Cas and said curiously, “Do you see her?”
Cas looked over to where Izaro indicated. There was nothing but a path leading to the river. The hairs stood up along his arms. “No.”
He resumed digging. When he had dug deep enough, he tossed the shovel aside and climbed out. Izaro watched him pull the body, still shrouded, to the very edge of the grave. Cas jumped back in, then carefully eased the corpse into his arms. His nostrils flared in protest. He set Izaro down as gently as he could, climbed out, and filled the hole. Neither of them spoke until Cas was done. He grabbed the shovel, said, “Well, goodbye,” and picked up his empty flask.
Izaro looked astonished. “What? Wait!” He hurried after Cas. “What about a prayer?”
Cas kept walking. He tucked the flask into his belt. “What about it?”
“Lord Cassiapeus—”
“Prayers are beyond me.” Cas looked straight ahead. He could hear the anxiousness in Izaro’s voice. He did not need to see the proof of it in his eyes. “I hope . . . I hope you can sleep now, Izaro. I’m sorry for what I did to your chickens.”
But Izaro did not appear to care about his long-lost birds. “Don’t you believe in prayer?”
“Not anymore.”
“But—”
Cas turned on him so suddenly Izaro stumbled back. “Look where you are! Where we all are, and tell me you believe there’s someone watching over us.” So many dead. What good had prayer done for them? He flung the shovel to the ground.
Izaro’s arms hung by his sides. Subdued, he said, “If I don’t believe, what will happen to me?”
“I don’t know. I can’t help you.”
Before Cas turned away, Izaro asked, in a different voice, “Do you see her?” They had reached the embankment. Above the bridge and the cottage, where he had left his horse.
“No, I said—” Cas stopped. Because there was someone by the mare.
From this distance, Cas saw a scrawny boy, twelve or thirteen, holding the reins with one boot already in the stirrup and watching Cas with wary eyes. Cas recognized the livery. The stranger wore the blue tunic and gray leggings of a royal messenger, along with a cap perched at a jaunty angle.
But Izaro had said her.
“A girl?” Cas asked the ghost, full of doubt.
“I’m dead and I can see it.”
The stranger called out, “Who are you talking to?”
“No one,” Cas answered. Izaro had seen what he had not, for the voice belonged to a lady. Not a twelve-year-old but someone of an age closer to his. Seventeen or eighteen. Her accent held no trace of the mountains, as his did. Her smooth, measured words brought to mind the capital city in the east. She was from Elvira. Cas crossed his arms and marveled at her nerve. She was stealing his horse. “Do you know what happens to horse thieves in this kingdom?”
“I do indeed.” She swung onto the horse, graceful in her movements, and did not appear worried Cas would catch her. They both knew he was too far away to give chase. He’d have to pick his way down the embankment to start. By then, she’d have ridden off in the other direction. “But I’m not stealing your horse, sir. I’m borrowing her. You may retrieve her at Palmerin, at the stables by the keep. I assume there is one. Do you know it?”