Page 2 of The Thirteenth Count

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.

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.