1. Thirteen Tolls #2
And never once had he asked her to do something as unsavory as this. He was a good father, a great father. How could she say no? After all the opportunities he afforded her, and not to mention the honor of being a Keeper’s daughter… For him, she would do this and never speak a word of it to anyone.
“It’s okay,” she whispered.
But as they resumed walking, a troubling thought surfaced. If her father had hidden this from her until now, what else was he concealing?
Fern drew in a sharp breath. “Does Mother know?”
“Your mother was the one who urged me to continue.”
She gasped. “Truly?”
“Truly.”
She missed a step, catching herself before she tripped, the body nearly going down. Her mother was, on a bad day, a saint. And to discover the woman who raised her wasn’t who she thought she was? Well, she simply didn’t know how to respond.
Eventually, the forest gave way to a thinning spinney of witherwood that ran along the bank of the Weeping Rise.
Whatever was in the water leeched life from the surrounding area—at least that’s what the Rootfolk were told—leaving the ground spongy with decay and making it feel deader than the corpse she carried.
People called it the Withering, a place where the land itself had died.
An apt name if I’ve ever heard one before.
Grey mist spilled from the water’s surface along the Weeping Rise’s banks, branching out far enough to kiss her feet.
A chill cut through Fern, pimpling her skin.
She followed the river’s serpentine track all the way up the side of Grimspine Ridge where the water flowed up.
It was unsettling. Unnatural. And it was something she should be used to.
But she wasn’t.
“Isn’t there another route we can take?” A thick branch full of leaves smacked her in the face as her foot squelched into the putrid ground beneath. She grimaced. “This is the worst—I hate walking near that blasted river. It gives me the creeps.”
“Such is life,” her father said. “And the will of Thornvale. It cannot be changed. It cannot be ignored. We must accept the inalienable, Fern.” Before she could protest, he added, “Not much further. Hold strong.”
Fern wrinkled her nose at that.
But her father spoke true; the lifeless branches split to open ground dotted with moss-covered stones.
Ancient burial markers. Her father had been here before, performing rites in this very place.
Through the trees, the distant glow of Whittle’s Rest’s wardcandles flickered in the gloom like the stars from the old stories.
Here, between the village and the wild, Denton had prepared their grim work.
Her father positioned the Deadwood in the shallow grave and sprinkled the body with juniper berries, thistle, and even bits of blackthorn bark—the same herbs he used for honored dead. To ensure a swift return to the Mother.
Fern pulled the familiar flint and tinder from her pocket; her father held the kindling. All it took was one spark to start the reaction.
Crackling embers raced along the Deadwood’s Oathblight.
It twisted and turned, incinerating everything in its path.
The tattered cotton that could hardly be considered clothing was nothing more than ash.
He burned, but no smoke rose. No stench of death.
Only the simmering scent of black blood and forbidden magic.
Fern couldn’t look away. Gruesome and disgusting, yes—but also strangely beautiful.
As the embers dwindled, the body lay charred in the crude hollow Denton scraped from the earth—barely deep enough to be called a grave, its edges ragged from bare-handed digging.
Then there was a whoosh, and suddenly stark white roots snaked up the Deadwoods legs, forming a tree trunk across his torso.
Skeletal branches crawled up his arms, wrapping around his face and neck, consuming the charcoal flesh in a stunning display.
Her father knelt, hands hovering over the Deadwood.
Fern bowed her head.
“Mother take him,” he said, voice somber. “Mother guide him. Mother return him whence he came.”
A gust of wind blew, and the trees tinkled like pieces of glass attached to strings as her father sliced his palm, dripping blood onto the body. Then, all was still, and the Deadwood disintegrated into nothing.
The two took a moment of silence, paying their respects, before they began the arduous task of filling the grave with bare hands.
And just as her father placed the grave marker, the bells tolled.
Fern and her father both turned toward Whittle’s Rest. She leaned in, straining to hear the count.
One.
Two.
Three.
She glanced at her father, watching his hands wring together.
Seven.
Eight.
“Father, we should—”
Nine.
He held up a shaking hand, cutting her off. “Shush, child.”
Twelve.
Thirteen.
Silence.
Her father paled.
“It’s too soon,” Fern whispered, trying to ignore the knot in her stomach.
He cleared his throat and brushed his hands against his trousers. “We must make haste.”
But Fern stood there, frozen.
For the Highbloods had made an announcement.
Tomorrow would be the thirteenth Count.