The Thirteenth Count (The Rooted Crown #1)

1. Thirteen Tolls

Of all the onerous tasks Fern had endured in her two decades of life, moving a dead body topped the list. The limbs stiff with rigor mortis. Bloated and green. And then there was the smell—sweet rot that clung to the back of her throat no matter how shallowly she breathed.

“Come on, Fern,” her father said, voice straining with effort as he hauled his end of the makeshift travois over a root. “Put your back into it.”

Fern groaned, adjusting her hold. A corpse was heavier than expected, and her arms were already growing numb. I could be having a honey cake right now, but instead, I’m hauling dead weight across the valley.

“I don’t understand,” she huffed, “why we’re doing this.”

“If we don’t, no one will.”

If her father had seen the eye roll she’d given, he’d have scolded her for days. “He was a Deadwood—a criminal.”

Her father stopped their trek into the Shadowmere’s twisting woods and looked over his shoulder and for the first time in Fern’s life, she thought he looked old.

He wore sturdy boots and heavy trousers that were frayed around the ankle.

His rough spun tunic did little to hide the paunch he’d grown over the years; her mother always said it was from an excessive love of sweets.

Wrinkles were etched along his forehead and at the corners of his hazel eyes, which were now filled with such disappointment.

And that disappointment punched her in the gut.

“He was a person, Fern.” With a shake of his head, he turned back around and started walking again, minding a low hanging branch.

“We don’t know the life he led, what choices or circumstances caused him to break a contract.

Was he forced? Or was he simply trying to put food on the table to feed his family?

” He lowered his voice. “Regardless of the reason—and above all else—he was still a person. Doesn’t everyone deserve a little dignity in death? I think so.”

Fern bristled at the lecture. But despite her building nausea, she forced herself to look at the Deadwood’s face.

Thorns sprouted from his head. Sable vines worked their way down his swollen neck.

And his eyes… his eyes were black as pitch.

A shiver ran down her spine. He barely looks human anymore.

Loath to admit it, she understood where her father was coming from, truly. But, by the Mother, breaking a contract, or worse, performing forbidden magic, were the worst things a person could do. Even worse than murder.

“I don’t like this,” she whispered, unable to take her eyes off the Deadwood. “If the Stembloods found us—if the Highbloods found us…”

“Which is why we must hurry.” Her father trudged along faster. “There’s no sympathy for us Rootfolk.” Again, he glanced at her. “Truth be told, we’re no better than Deadwoods.”

No better than Deadwoods, huh?

His words rolled around her mind as they ducked beneath gnarled branches and avoided trunks the size of a small cottage.

Her father wasn’t wrong. To be sure, the Rootfolk had purpose.

Without people like her and her family, grain wouldn’t be farmed, medicinal herbs and roots wouldn’t be foraged, and the Highbloods would lose their precious blood stores.

But if need be, the Highbloods and Stembloods would send the Rootfolk to an early grave.

The valley posed its own dangers, too. Insects skittered throughout brambles; bats screeched amongst the canopies.

She jerked her body, trying to get a spider off her arm.

Her father shot her a quick look and she smiled sheepishly.

One bite from an orange rateater would kill her in less than a minute; she wasn’t taking any chances.

The Deadwood’s round, distended belly sloshed about with each drag of the travois.

This time, she looked away. Is that what happened to him?

When the Stemblood tithe collector came around, did he refuse to pay?

Did he refuse his blood? Was he punished because he no longer wanted to feed the upper tiers?

The travois caught on a root, jolting them to a halt.

The body shifted, threatening to slide off.

Fern reached to steady it, and the flesh of the man’s cold, dead thigh gave beneath her fingers—spongy and swollen, like old fruit left too long outside.

I’m going to be sick. She yanked her hand back and glanced down at it.

Raised black veins coiled from the back of her palm and raced up her arm, taking the shape of thorny vines.

She’d given her own blood tithe two days past. Never could she forget the slender needle used to extract exactly one phial of blood.

No thanks given. Only a sneer and the unsightly pattern known to all, showing her debt was paid.

Unlike the Deadwood’s, her Oathblight would eventually fade.

But knowing that Highbloods drank her blood to fortify their own magic made her sick to her stomach.

Fern sighed, trying to ignore her roiling gut. “How far are we going?”

“Whittle’s Rest. I know it’s far, but Denton finished preparing the site early this morning. Best not to let his efforts go to waste.”

Silently, Fern thanked the Root Mother for granting her the foresight to wear boots and trousers. Travel past the Weeping Rise in her skirts would have proved disastrous. But this smell… eugh, she thought as she glanced down at her stained outfit. Will I be able to wash away the stench of death?

She looked behind her. Ashford Cross could no longer be seen in the distance—not since they’d foregone the safety of the Thornspine for obscurity through the heart of Shadowmere.

She’d never ventured this deep into the woods, even during early morning foraging trips when wildlife slept.

And truth be told, she was nervous. One never knew what lurked within the copse.

Rootfolk told stories. Terrible stories of fearsome creatures dragging loved ones back to the Mother’s embrace.

But her father seemed sure of his path and she had no reason to doubt him, save for the fact that he was having her help him move a Deadwood.

Still, they’d been at it for hours, and Fern was tired.

Her back screamed. The corpse felt twice as heavy as when they started.

They must have walked five miles already.

But she couldn’t be sure of any of it. Time was impossible to tell without village bells or an ancestral clock.

Highbloods had their ways of marking hours, but out here in the woods, time felt meaningless.

She glanced up through the canopy, but the unchanging light offered no help—perpetual dusk made it so they never saw the sun rise or set like the stories, unless they left the valley.

And they never did that.

It wasn’t that people avoided leaving the valley out of fear—they simply couldn’t, or so she was told. Those who had attempted the journey returned baffled, saying it was as if the world just… ended, with a giant wall of impassable greyish-red mist.

I bet Sprout has seen the setting sun though.

Fern’s father expertly navigated around a fallen log as if he’d done this one hundred times before.

Maybe he has. The only sounds were labored breaths and the crunch of Red Autumn leaves beneath their feet, which did little to quell her thoughts.

She didn’t want to think of her father as a criminal, as barely better than the man they were about to bury, but the thought kept nagging at her.

“Father,” she said finally, “why do we risk this? You’re a Keeper—surely that doesn’t require you to bury criminals.”

He sighed deeply. “Since I dragged you into this, I suppose you ought to know.”

Fern waited. Silence stretched between her, her father, and the corpse. She tapped nervously against the rough wood of the travois pole, careful not to trip over forest debris.

Eventually, when he spoke again, his voice was thoughtful. “The Mother teaches us that all souls are born of her, and in time, will return, Fern.” He shifted the weight of the body with a grunt. “The Highbloods may make distinctions of worthy and unworthy, but death makes equals of us all.”

“But the other Keepers don’t—”

“The other Keepers serve their congregations. They perform ceremonies for those who can afford proper burials.” His grip on the travois tightened. “I chose to serve everyone—the poor who couldn’t pay, and even those the hierarchy deemed unworthy.”

Fern frowned. “Unworthy?”

He nodded and focused on the Deadwood over his shoulder. “Unworthy of proper burial, unworthy of an honorable death.” After a moment, a bitter laugh escaped him. “The Keepers didn’t like that I disagreed with that assessment.”

“How did they find out what you were doing?” Her heart thudded against her chest.

“I had buried a Stemblood’s son who had broken his contract.

The family wanted it kept quiet, but they also wanted proper rites.

” He paused. “I made a mistake and performed his burial in the grove. Sarmon walked in during the ceremony and reported it to the Grove Council, who felt I overstepped my bounds by treating a Deadwood with such distinction.”

“What happened after?”

“They encouraged me to stick to sanctioned burials only. No more unauthorized charity work.”

Fern nearly lost her footing and sucked in sharply. “And you kept doing it anyway?”

Her father twisted his neck, offering her a sad smile.

“The Mother doesn’t abandon her children simply because they made poor choices.

Neither should I.” His steps slowed to a stop, and he hung his head.

“I never wanted to involve you in this part of my life, Fern. There was no time to find a replacement with Reed on bedrest…” Slowly he looked at her, hazel eyes watery with unshed tears. “I am so sorry, Fern.”

Her heart ached as she stared at him. Scratches and bruises marred pale, freckled skin, tawny hair so thin one could see the gleam of his scalp. Her poor father aged swiftly and poorly, and now she knew why. Life’s stresses, the mantel he upheld… it was wearing on him.