Sword and Sorceress XXVII (5 page)

She brushed aside the debris and climbed
down the narrow, rooted stairway and into the airy cavern down below.

The fey sat there, watching her, waiting.

“I’m sorry,” Amina said. “I meant to
return right away, but I fell asleep. I came as soon as I woke up. I am ready
to pay the price.”

Then she swallowed hard, stood straight,
and waited.

The fey smiled. “I thought you would
return. You’re a Memory Keeper. Even I know what that means. My price? I want
memories. I want you to bring me memories.”

Amina stared at her in horror—use up her
people’s precious store of memories to amuse a fey? She couldn’t do that; she
wouldn’t do that.

“Those memories that we store in the
boxes are for helping my people through crises. Once a Memory Keeper takes one
out of the box, she is the only one who can remember it. It can never be used
again. Please, is there any other way I can repay you? I can’t sacrifice my
people’s safety.”

“Oh, I don’t mean
those
memories.
I meant new ones—ones you could make. And then give to me. Memories like what
it is like to be out under the sun. What it is like to do the things you do
around the village. Maybe even memories from some of the other villagers—you
can gather them, right? Little things. Celebrations, get-togethers, even
regular days…”

The fey’s voice drifted off, and Amina
finally recognized what she had seen in the other’s face in that moment at the
end of the last tunnel. It had been loneliness.

“You can’t go out, can you?” Amina asked
softly

“I’m bound here,” the fey said simply. “At
least until my people come back.” She clamped her teeth tightly over that
second remark, as if regretting letting that slip out. Amina sensed it had been
a long time since the others of her kind had been back.

“That I can do,” Amina said, knowing she
was committing herself to doing the one thing that she had struggled with and
fought against for so long—working with, gathering and using the memories of
others. But it didn’t bother her now. As her aunt had said, she was a trained
adult now, one with a strong gift for the task, and even when she had immersed
herself into the memory of the girl who had claimed she had traveled the fey
ways, she had had no problems pulling her ‘self’ back out and letting go of the
memory.

“I will bring you memories of sunshine
and harvest, of winter storytelling around the fire, of the laughter of
children and the good ache of a harvest brought in. I will bring you memories
of all that and more.”

And she did. She went regularly to the
cavern under the oak and gave not only memories but friendship to the lonely
fey. And if, in later years, she seemed to grow a bit fey herself, well, she
was a Memory Keeper and they always were a bit odd.

Grave Gold

by
Jonathan Shipley

Jenna had
problems: the Church; her brother; the unquiet ghosts in the barrow; and her
ability to speak with them, which could lead to accusations of witchcraft. And
then, of course, there was the cursed gold. But perhaps the gold and its curse could
be used to solve the problems and to get the Church to leave her and her
village in peace.

This
is Jonathan Shipley’s third appearance in SWORD & SORCERESS after another
busy year of writing and marketing short stories.  Most recently, he was
published in an Australian horror anthology and has several other anthologies
about to make print. Although “Grave Gold” is a departure from his favorite
clan, House Arburg, it revolves around one of his favorite thematic
explorations: life and death and undeath. Even with so many varied
presentations of undeath available to the modern reader, there is still a lot
to explore. Jonathan has a web presence at www. shipleyscifi.com and lives in
Fort Worth, Texas.

****

Looks like trouble
,
Jenna thought as she rooted vegetables in the garden by the inn. Down the road,
a little procession was headed her direction. At first glance, it seemed to be
a lord in a fine coach with a brace of riders fore and aft, but a second glance
revealed that the guards’ shields weren’t emblazoned with family armorials, but
with the crossed oak clusters of the Church. She frowned. If those four were
Knights of the Holy Retribution, the occupant of the coach was a cleric of
considerable rank.

Her gaze automatically flicked to the
hillock with its crown of ruined towers. There was only one reason outsiders
visited this desolate region on the edge of the moors—cursed gold. It drew
those greedy lowlanders like a magnet. The locals had more sense. After seeing lowland
visitors trek up the hill and never come down, they kept their distance. But
Jenna didn’t mind living right there on the doorstep, so to speak.  The moors
might extend all the way to hell, but the inn provided good enough employment. As
a young woman without money or family, she could do far worse. Besides, her
family had a way with the dead.

From her post in the garden, Jenna
watched the procession roll into the inn’s stable yard. So His Grandness was
favoring the inn with his patronage, was he? She doubted anything good would
come out of that. With a shake of her head, she gathered her vegetable baskets
and headed back to the inn.

His Grandness was coming out just as she
reached the door, and he was very grand indeed. It wasn’t so much the silk of his
robes or the heavy gold Ring of Office on his finger as the attitude of his
walk and glance. Jenna had a bit of the Sight and disliked him instantly. This
was a man of power who would roll over anyone who stood in his way. At least he
wasn’t staying.

She pushed through the door into the
common room. The afternoon patronage was the usual mix of drunkards, ruffians,
with the occasional honest traveler thrown in. Travelers might want a room for
the night, but the rest just sat in the taproom and swilled ale through the
afternoon, then moved on at sundown. The moors behind the inn had a reputation
as a grim place at night, and the locals preferred a little more distance
between grim and them.

Bron, the innkeep, beckoned Jenna over
to the counter. “Deal with that one who just came in,” he murmured, glancing at
the corner where a priest in a wide-brimmed hat was drawing sour stares from
around the room. “A priester is always bad for business, but he’s wanting a
room.”

Jenna nodded. The borderlands weren’t
that hospitable to lowland priests, not even ones that arrived by grand
carriage. Straightening her apron, she headed across the room. “This way,
father,” she said, pointing him toward a narrow staircase. “You’ll find our
rooms spare but clean.”

He followed quickly, seemingly as eager
to get away from the rough clientele as they were eager to be quit of him. Something
prickled at the back of her mind. Did she know this priest—he felt familiar. She
led him up the stairs to the room farthest away from everything. “How long will
you be staying with us, father?” she asked as she ushered him into the sparsely
furnished bedroom. It was small but had its own window, which was better than
some.

He didn’t answer, just followed her
inside and closed the door.

Jenna stiffened. This was odd. And it
bothered her how he kept ducking his head so that his hat obscured his face. None
of that was behavior that she wanted to be alone with, though he didn’t feel at
all dangerous. She tensed as he stepped closer.

 “Jenna,” he said nervously. “It’s me.” And
he pulled off his hat to reveal a thin face far too young to be a priest.

“Herrin?” she gasped. “What are you
doing here?” Her little brother was supposed to be studying at the St. Kyre’s
cathedral half a kingdom away. “And why are you pretending to be a priest when
you’re still a seminarian?”

“I’m not pretending—people just assume
when they see the robes.”

“Which you encourage by hiding your face
so they can’t see you’re just a boy,” she pointed out.

He bristled. “I’m not a boy anymore,
Jenna. I turned sixteen last month—old enough to be given a mission of
expurgation by the Lord Bishop himself and important enough to ride with His
Magnificence in his carriage.”

Riding in a bishop’s carriage would turn
the head of a lowly seminarian rightly enough, she thought. The word “expurgation”
ominously echoed in her head. “Herrin, tell me you did not come back on a fool’s
mission to cleanse the barrow.” The reason the moors were shunned after dark
had much to do with the unquiet dead up the hill.

“The Church is trying to root out all
these pockets of unclean spirits,” he muttered defensively. “The Lord Bishop
was delighted that I know the barrow hills so well and thought I was the man
for the job.”

“The boy for the slaughter, you mean,”
Jenna sniffed. “Either your Lord Bishop is a complete idiot, or for some reason
he wants to be rid of you. You grew up here. You know what happens to every
gold hunter that goes up to the barrow.”

Herrin gave a deep sigh. “Actually the
Lord Bishop doesn’t believe the barrow is all that dangerous. He says this
should be an easy expurgation.”

Jenna frowned. “Easy? If it were easy,
Gran would have laid the dead to rest a long time ago. Remember how hard she
had to work calming them down every time another gold hunter got them riled up?
She knew the darkness up in the barrow better than anyone and always called it
dangerous.”

“I know, I know. I’m just repeating what
the Lord Bishop told me. That’s why I need your help. I know Gran taught you
things, maybe enough to keep the dead quiet until we finish here.” She
stiffened. “Please, Jenna,” he wheedled. “You have the Sight and Gran taught
you to do up charms as well as anyone.”

“Don’t be making me out to be a witch,
you idiot. I’ve never tried to bespeak the dead up there, so who knows if I
have any talent at calming them. And you know as well as I do there’s only one
reason why any outsider, bishop or no, would be so interested in our local
haunts.”

Herrin fidgeted a long moment. “All
right, the bishop wants the gold, but not like you think. It’s part of St. Kyre’s
gold and needs to go south to the cathedral. The Lord Bishop is here to
retrieve it. He told me his Ring of Office was blessed by the saint himself and
will lead him to the missing gold, but he still needs my knowledge of the
barrow. And that’s why you have to spell the dead to stay quiet for a bit. Will
you help me?” he added quietly.

“I’ll bring you a plate of stew and a
mug of ale, but beyond that”—she fixed Herrin with a stern stare—”I promise
nothing.”

All this was so wrong that Jenna didn’t
know where to start. There was no easy spell to quiet the unquiet dead for
starters, and living here all her life, she’d never heard of any connection St.
Kyre. The gold was cursed—everyone knew that. It would take more than the
Church’s blessing to make something good out of cursed gold? And the Church
regularly warned people to stay clear of hauntings and call a Holy Exorcist. Why
would the bishop downplay the danger of the barrow?

“First off,” she told her brother, “you can’t
continue masquerading as a priest because priests are bad for business. If you’re
going to stay a while, I’ll bring you some workclothes and introduce you around
as my brother here on holiday. Second off, you can’t be dragging me into this. Gran
might have known how to help, but I’m just a barmaid with the odd charm or two
at her command.”

Herrin sighed. “But Gran knew everything
about the barrow. I thought she might have told you before she... passed.”

An awkward silence descended. Herrin
hadn’t come home when Gran had sickened last year. Maybe he should have been
there; maybe it didn’t really matter. Jenna had put it behind her. “Gran used
to say that the barrow dead weren’t out for vengeance and walked only because
they were cursed to guard the gold. I daresay that’s different from most
exorcisms.”

“Maybe so, though I don’t think the
Church differentiates. I thought I might go up and poke around this afternoon.”

Jenna cringed. “Poking around? That’s
exactly the wrong thing to do. You stay put in your room... I’ll go.” Then she
winced. She needed to stay out of this matter, not rush headfirst into it. But
she would do it for her brother. Her gaze softened. “But it’s good to see you
again, Herrin. It’s been too long.”

#

The holding at the top of the hill had
gone to ruin ages ago, but partial walls still marked the placement of the
curtain wall and the main keep. It was no grand castle in the lowland sense,
just the rough border holding with a barrow built into the far side of the
hill.

Jenna circled the hill until she reached
the low arch that served as the entrance. Was she really doing this? Apparently
so. She always knew he’d have to test her talent one day. Among the clutter of
notes Gran had left was a recipe for talking to the dead with some measure of
protection. And if it had worked for Gran, then... well, it seemed a better
plan than Herrin “poking around.”

Stooping, she made her way to a central
chamber lit by shafts cut in the hillside. She opened her basket and brought
out a loaf of bread and thimble full of salt. These she placed on the stone
plinth that stood in the middle of the chamber. “A gift for those who rest
here,” she intoned as she broke the loaf in half and sprinkled the salt over
it. “May you look with favor on me and mine and not begrudge us our time in the
sun. For night comes to all, all too quickly.” Then she pulled out the kitchen
knife and pricked her finger, letting one, two, three drops of blood drip down
on the bread.

From deeper in the barrow she heard
movement and had to plant her feet to keep from fleeing. A bit of blood freely
given was supposed to grant protection, but it granted nothing against the fear
she was feeling. She gritted her teeth as the clanking of metal on metal drew
closer.

Shadows paused in the mouth of the
tunnel leading deeper into the hill. “Why do you disturb our rest?” The words
were a dry whisper that barely carried.

“We may both have the same need,” Jenna
said shakily. Though she had rehearsed this speech carefully, the words tumbled
out chaotically. “My brother, a servant of the Church, has been sent to lay
this barrow to rest, and I am blood-bound to help him.”

A long exhalation issued from the
shadowed figures. It sounded ominous.

“But I know from my Gran,” she continued
hastily, “that the dead of this barrow do not rise out of malice or vengeance,
but from a curse placed upon them long ago.”

“It is so. We must walk while our task
remains undone.” One voice seemed to answer this time.

Jenna seized on that. “Then perhaps the
time has come for that task to be completed. To that end, I offer you my aid. I
have no great power, but I can accomplish some small magicks. We could be
allies.”

Then she waited, doubt creeping over
her. While all this made sense to her, how could the living know what motivated
the dead? She still had the kitchen knife, but that was no real defense if the
spirits turned on her.

“Perhaps so,” the shadow hissed softly. “The
world has turned in an unexpected way. When the moon is high, I shall come to
you. Now go.”

Leaving the bread and salt, Jenna
retreated quickly, backing down the entrance tunnel until she reached the arch
and the sunlight beyond. She took deep breaths to quiet her trembling body,
then headed down the hill.

#

He arrived in full armor when the moon
was as its peak. The few people in the common room noticed, but not the right
things. They saw a helmeted soldier, an unwanted authority figure. They didn’t
see that the armor was outdated, that the crest on his breastplate was that of
a long-dead clan. They didn’t notice that the common room grew chill when he
entered.

Jenna gathered her courage and went to
meet him just inside the door. “This way, sir,” she said, beckoning to a corner
table where they could talk without being overheard. There were more secluded
places, of course—the rooms upstairs, the stableyard, the cellar—but she didn’t
want to be that private with a revenant spirit. It seemed prudent to have help
within easy screaming distance.