Leave it to that unserious hero’s son who couldn’t quite commit to the title himself, let alone commit to anyone else, to disappear on them in what was shaping up to be a nasty storm.
If he died out here from his own stupidity, it would serve him right.
Yet to Alys, who was already starting on her own frantic search of the trees, Mal pleaded, “Help me look for him. Look for tracks, drag marks, anything. We have to find him.”
He couldn’t quite bring himself to call it luck that they had an assortment of dark feathers mingled with the most visible of the mule’s prints to guide their way.
Chapter FifteenA Murder
Griff was too distracted to answer the faint calling of his name right away. He was following something that had caught his eye just off the path, a bit of shiny that had quickly rolled away from him as though he’d accidentally kicked it rather hard with his boot. Yet he was almost certain he hadn’t.
One of the ravens that had descended during the storm’s approach clocked him with a beady eye as he drew closer to the object that had finally rolled to a stop: a man’s heavy signet ring set with a garnet stone, the band one of dulled gold, the red gem at its center carved with a distinct family crest.
Rhun’s family crest.
First his dagger, and now his ring. It seemed the shadow that might be Rhun had wanted him to come this way for some reason; and although he was curious enough to follow, Griff also thought warily, once again, of Vic’s bait traps.
He hadn’t called out to the others because it had happened so quickly, and because he wasn’t going to follow any bauble or sign very far out here. He didn’t want to vanish like Rhun, to become nothing more than bits of steel and jewelry scattered in muddy water.
Dismounting from the mule, he finally picked up the ring and looked around. He had wandered into an area where the trees and shrubbery muted the worst of the storm’s effects, though it was unpleasantly full of more of the birds Mal hated.
Water ran heavily from branches that twisted down toward the earth like weary arms, providing patches of cover. In those branches, a flock of ravens perched, wings rustling, beaks moving softly with conversations tapering to a halt, as if Griff had just interrupted some sort of covert meeting.
One of the birds dropped in a swift flutter and took a couple of skittering, three-toed hops toward the base of the biggest tree, the one in which most of its companions were roosting. Regarding Griff with an unreadable, reptilian stare, it opened its beak slowly, almost as if intending to speak.
He knew there were some birds in the Mire that could mimic human speech—not for any good purpose, as they were another of the dark queen’s creations—but this bird only gave a throaty caw.
Raking at the earth for a few moments with determined swipes of its talons, the raven glanced back again at Griff, as if waiting for the human to catch on and start scrubbing through the mud much like the bird was doing now.
Its black claws scratched frantically, resuming the task as Griff strode closer, one hand on his maul just in case. Water flowed in where mud was cleared, and soon enough came the sound of those talons scraping against what sounded like—and looked like—a piece of wood.
Kneeling in the mud near the bird, Griff reluctantly tucked his maul back into his belt. There were, he realized as he scrutinized the damp ground, a few glints of silver in the mud here and there: old coins, tarnished and stamped with a starry design that the elves hadn’t used since back before they founded Stormveil. He had seen the like only in history books.
There were probably more beneath the wood, he guessed. With the bird looking on, he too began to dig, and with the help of the storm, it didn’t take long to reveal a rotting wooden chest in the grip of mud and roots at the base of the tree, its lid still held in place by rusty iron latches. He guessed they would give way with any amount of pressure, frail as they were with age and weather.
It was like the shadow had wanted them to find this treasure. Notthetreasure—they weren’t nearly far enough into the Mire after a day’s slow march to have reached Rhun’s X on that map—but this old chest, these old coins. Why? Was Rhun perhaps feeling helpful and fatherly from beyond the grave?
The raven finally stopped digging, gave Griff another mysterious beady-eyed stare, then darted into the branches to sit among its fellows and watch the proceedings imperiously.
Maybe, Griff half hoped but mostly doubted, whatever was within this chest would be enough to satisfy Mal’s thirst for riches. As such, it didn’t feel right to open it without the others here.
“Mal!” he shouted over the rain, only to be rewarded with a jolt of pain from his scar that left him gasping for air. There were other reasons they needed to keep going too. When he had caught his breath, he tried again. “Alys! Over here—I found something! I found some treasure!”
Mal stalked toward the sound of Griff’s voice with a sour look on his face.
“Griff, what thefuck? I can’t believe you’re joking about the treasure right now when we should all be looking for shelter,” the thief growled as he ducked beneath the low branches with Alys in tow, raising the collar of her shirt over her head to act as a shield from the rain. “Wait—what’s this?” The scowl on his face wavered and he stopped in his tracks as he took in the sightof Griff and his bandaged leg sprawled in the mud beside a wooden chest.
As his friends crowded around, he polished the ring on his shirt and showed it to them. Alys took it right away and tried to put it on, but it was much too big for any of her fingers. They would have to find her a chain if she wanted to wear it.
“I don’t like this,” Mal said, backlit by another flash of lightning. “Any spirit—even Rhun’s—giving us stuff. Nobody gives things away for free.”
“It’s not him, though,” Alys countered steadily, frowning. “I would feel him. I’ve never forgotten what it was like to be around him, even just his presence in the next room while I was trying to fall asleep. Big and warm and steady.”
“And then there’s the birds—those fucking birds! Nothing good ever happens when they’re around,” Mal went on rather than arguing with her, dropping to his knees beside Griff. He must have seen something of the lingering effects of the pain from his scar etched into his face, as he asked, “Are you sure you’re all right?” When Griff nodded, he admitted, “I thought you were teasing me when you shouted about treasure.”
“If I wanted to do that, I have years’ worth of ammunition saved up,” Griff said quietly. “Fake treasure isn’t even on the list of how I’d do it, and besides—I don’t have a death wish, remember?”
Mal frowned. “Tempting, but I’ve still got the scars from that old routine.” Then he added, a dark edge to his tone that still wasn’t quite teasing, “Though if you ask me, you’d be getting the better end of the deal. You’d be a happy phantom rather than a sad elf, and I’d be the one having to face Wynnie’s wrath when I told her you’d gone and done it all on my account.”
