gaze. She nods, as if remembering something. Then she turns around and carries on walking.
I follow, my nerves jangling, as she continues on her tour of Tremayne’s dead. Every so often we pass a grave with a circle on it, a line across the centre of it. The symbol bothers me, because I’ve seen it somewhere recently, and then I remember: it was carved into the salt merchant’s door in Tremayne.
I pause in front of one of the graves with the symbol on it and pick absently at a blackberry bush snarling out from beside it, piling the last of the fruit in my hand. I know it means something else but I can’t quite catch the memory.
Without meaning to – or perhaps I meant to all along – I’ve wandered to the west side of the cemetery. Here the vaults are of tall, grey stone with the family name carved across the top. A field of the dead, she called it. In this part of the cemetery the description is accurate, I’ll give her that. They’re like little houses; some have windows, and some have altars inside with shelves for offerings. Almost all have oak leaves or holly leaves, sometimes both, carved across the lintels, a superstitious throwback to the old gods and old ways. The tombs here are well kept, none of the stones are broken, and from the corner of my eye I watch Dimia stare at them all, occasionally trailing a long finger across the carved leaves.
The fog has rolled in now, bringing the scent of smoke from the villagers’ fires with it. My hand has folded into a fist, crushing the blackberries so the purple juice runs out between my fingers. My eyes shift to the right and my heart begins to race.
Our tomb is right there, perhaps ten or twelve feet away. The door carved with the names of my grandparents, great-grandparents.
And my father.
I turn from it and gaze at the monument behind me, a winged angel asleep on a stone bed, the crossed circle carved into it: the final resting place of Jephrys Mulligan. I try to concentrate on the dates and words as my stomach churns, willing myself not succumb to panic. Dimia passes behind me, her eyes still fixed on the vaults, and I count to ten in my mind.
I’ve reached seven when she gasps and I turn slowly to her.
She’s staring up at the tomb. Her hand is still outstretched, but frozen in the air. Her mouth moves silently as she runs through the names written there.
“Lief Vastel,” she says aloud.
“My grandfather. My father’s father. My brother was named for him.”
I walk towards the tomb, every footstep like walking through swampland, the effort to lift my legs painful. And there it is: Azra Vastel. My father. His name is carved into the door below that of his mother, who died ten moons before I was born. The words already have a faded, old look to them, as though they’ve been there for much longer than six moons. I step past Dimia and grip the iron handle. It sticks for a moment, then gives, and the musty smell of the tomb flows out and mingles with the smoky air.
I step inside, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the scant light coming from the dirty windows. I begin to make out the shapes of stone plaques on the walls, the names carved on them matching those on the door. There are blank ones, for me, for my mother, for any children that follow. I realize with a sharp pain beneath my ribs that one of the plaques will have to be inscribed for Lief. He won’t have a coffin though. He won’t lie here, turning to dust with the rest of his family, given back to nature. He might have been burned, like a Lormerian. Or worse.
I take a deep breath, holding it in my lungs and then exhaling so hard that dust motes swirl around me.
The air shifts; Dimia has followed me in. I turn and she gives me a look of heartbreaking pity. I blink, confused by her concern, until a tear lands on my hand. I’m crying again. Quietly, as though I’m a wild animal and she’s afraid I’ll bite her, she steps towards me and raises her arms. It’s she who stiffens as she wraps them around me, holding me rigidly as if she’s not quite sure what to do. The awkwardness of it reminds me of