“That is our trail,” she said, turning full to face the forest.

At once, her back to the mound and the thin black opening that yawned from it, she felt something watching her.

sed her stick to help her climb up the steep slope of one of the mounds—the westernmost one, she judged by the position of the sun and the shadows. Her robes got in the way, and she yanked them free of her feet and of grasping bushes with a grunt of irritation. Berthold did not follow her up. Rather, he ranged around the base of the mound, knocking at slabs of stone and shoving aside shrubby stumps of plants with the butt of his knife.

Breathing hard, cheeks flushed, she scrambled up to the uneven top of the mound and stared out with great satisfaction. Indeed, as she had suspected, from the mounds one could see out over the trees, although the lines of sight did not bring her eye down into the valley but rather to the summits of other hills and to the heavens themselves. From where she stood she had a good view of the clearing, the footprints of fallen stones in the tangled undergrowth; as far as she could tell, they had been aligned in a circle.

“Look here!” Berthold sang out with sudden excitement. He stood below her at the base of the mound on the side that faced away from the stone circle. She made her way carefully down to him, arriving at the same time as his father.

He was pink with excitement. “I’ve seen old mounds like this before. There was a cluster of them out by the river at my blessed mother’s estate on the Auras River. Always there is some kind of opening, a passageway. And see. Here.” He had found a sturdy stick and wedged open a fallen slab of stone. Rosvita knelt and peered in. A dark opening yawed there, black as pitch and with the scent of air and objects long uncovered to the light. She shuddered and drew back. Berthold, with all the enthusiasm of youth, took her place, shoving the opening a little wider.

“Do you think that wise?” asked Villam suddenly.

“We crawled into the other one.” Berthold shoved his shoulders into the gap so far his voice was muffled. “There was nothing but a dry chamber deep inside. Some old bones and broken pots. And dirt.”

Villam drew the Circle of Unity at his breast. “Is that the way to respect the remains of the dead?” he demanded. “Or at the least, to be prudent when dealing with—” He broke off.

“Ai!” said Berthold with disgust, backing out. “It’s too dark and we have no torch. Even if I could move this slab, there’s a bend in the passage ahead, and there’d be no light to see by. But I could come back up tomorrow or the next day, with some of my men and torches.” He glanced up over his shoulder, grinning sweetly. “With your leave, Father.”

“And disturb what manner of creature?” asked Villam, looking appalled.

Rosvita could not help but nod in agreement. The old tomb, if tomb it was, was better left undisturbed. But Berthold had all the blithe enthusiasm of youth. He looked delighted.

“Do you suppose?” he asked. “No. If old sorceries were at work here, then certainly they have long since gone to sleep. There might be treasure!”

“Surely, Sister Rosvita,” said Villam, appealing to her in the face of his son’s excitement, “you believe, as I do, that it is better to leave the dead asleep and not to disturb them unless they themselves invite you in.”

“I know little of sorcery, Lord Helmut. The sisters of St. Valeria are better known for their studies of the forbidden arts while we at Korvei have long labored over our chronicles. But any suggestion of sorcery is not to be taken lightly. Whether living or long dead.”

She spoke sternly, hoping to make some impression on the young man, but Berthold merely nodded his head obediently and then went to investigate the other mounds.

Villam sighed. “He is a fine boy. But too curious, and lacking prudence.”

“We will be riding on from Hersford Monastery soon, Lord Helmut. I will attempt to keep an eye on him until that time.”

“I thank you.”

Watching the young man pressing through the grass, her gaze traveled along the forest’s edge. And there, she saw a track. It was no more than an opening among trees, but it corresponded to the vague directions given her by Father Bardo. “Beyond the height of the hill follow the trail of the animals, or so I have been told.” Father Bardo had not, evidently, seen fit to visit the most famous holy member of his own cloister. But then, Father Bardo enjoyed his comforts and did not like to leave the pleasant luxuries of the monastery.

Be not too proud, Rosvita, she chided herself, lest you be judged as harshly as you judge others in your turn.

“That is our trail,” she said, turning full to face the forest.

At once, her back to the mound and the thin black opening that yawned from it, she felt something watching her.

She spun back. Immediately that sense of an unseen presence vanished. It was only an overgrown mound with a passageway blocked by stone slabs.

But Villam had a strange expression on his face. “I had a sudden feeling,” he said, and shook himself. “As if something clutched at me, trying to find out what I was, just as a blind man might grope at what is before him because he can only see and recognize it with his fingers.”

“Let us move away from here,” said Rosvita.

“I will fetch my son,” he said, “and meet you at the path.”

He hurried away. Cautiously, she turned her back to the mound. Again, she felt the unseen presence, but more muted, as if it was keeping its distance. It took a great deal of resolve for her to walk away from the mound toward the trail without looking back over her shoulder.

Villam and Berthold and the men-at-arms met her at the trail, which was scarcely more than a parting of branches. It led into the trees. But she took not more than one hundred steps, sloping down, before she found herself at a rocky outcropping. There rose a spring from a defile. Set back against tree and rock was a tiny hut. It had fresh plaster on the outside walls. Moss grew on the roof, giving the thatch a coat of green.

She became aware of the wind soughing through the trees and the clack of branches against rock, of the chitter of small creatures, hushing as the horses stamped, and the singing of birds in the boughs above.

Tags: Kate Elliott Crown of Stars Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net