The Gravedigger's Son by Patrick Moody

Author:Patrick Moody
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sky Pony Press
Published: 2017-08-08T16:00:00+00:00

They met back in the dining hall, where Bertrum had prepared the traditional feast. Ian felt uncomfortable as he sank into his chair at the head of the long table, gazing down at the blacksmith seated at the other end. Between them lay platters and bowls of every imaginable food. Bertrum had, as he did every year, outdone himself. Ian didn’t know why the caretaker had gone to such lengths for just the two of them. The old grouch shrugged and muttered “tradition.”

That word again, back to haunt him. Ian looked out at the cakes and muffins and crumpets, then the pheasant, the roasted pig, the turkey legs, and steaks.

After hearing Bertrum’s story, he didn’t much feel like eating.

Bertrum hadn’t said a word since they’d returned to the manor. Now, he stared at the food in front of him, every now and then stabbing at a slab of meat. Of course, he couldn’t eat any of it—what corpse could? Still, he’d take a bite and chew for a while. “At least I can still taste it,” he said.

After Bertrum had his fill, he thumped a load of throwing axes down onto the table and began sharpening them one at a time with a whetstone.

Ian watched him work, his rough, gray hands moving the stone back and forth across the steel’s edge.

Betrum looked up and noticed Ian staring. “We need to be careful, now,” he grumbled. “Can’t count yerself safe, not even behind these walls.”

“I know,” he said. “They’re watching us, aren’t they?”

Bertrum shrugged. “Can’t say for certain. Dehlia … she’s powerful. No tellin’ what she’ll do.”

“I wish—” Ian caught himself before he could finish, feeling his cheeks redden. I wish Mom was still here, he wanted to say. She’d protect us.

It was strange. Her memory seemed … different, now. Tarnished … Everything he’d known about her had been a lie. Or was it? He still remembered the sound of her voice—the sweet, lilting, harmonious tone like a lullaby, even when she wasn’t singing. That had been real. And even if she had been a Weaver, she wasn’t the bad kind. Bertrum had said so. She wasn’t like that old woman in the woods.

That old woman.

He had to stop calling her that. His stomach twisted into horrible knots at the very thought of her. She wasn’t just some woman … She was his grandmother. While most kids’ grandmothers were kind, knitting them mittens and baking sweets and telling stories, his was a murderous old crone who made potions from little boys’ bones.

He kept returning to one question: why? Why had his grandmother done what she had? She’d spoken of revenge. Revenge for his mother? His aunt? The other Weavers who’d descended on the graveyard and fallen in the fight? Maybe Dehlia’s grudge had nothing to do with his mother or himself. Maybe she wanted revenge for something far older, something that happened long, long ago.

Whatever her reasons, Ian couldn’t help worrying. Something had been set in motion when his grandmother drew his blood and spoke those awful words.

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