When Jesstin set out, he’d intended to visit his usual haunt. Three, four times a week, just as dusk was settling, he’d take up a spot on the east hill overlooking the Hermitage and wait for a sighting of his family. It was how he’d learned Asterin had taken up gardening in his elder years and that Rhiain liked to ride every evening before supper. Their children joined them about once a week, and he’d always think of them that way, despite that they all had children of their own.
Caterina and her husband, Percy Bircham, a man with no titles or money, had built a home on the same land so were there often. Their son, Wyat, had taken the Edevane name, so Asterin—who had taken up the Oldcastle stewardship when Theocratin had passed without heirs—could name him as his successor. Tyreste and his wife lived in Greenfen half of the year, along with their three children, but the other half they stayed in a cabin Asterin had built for them behind the main house. The other two lived with their spouses’ families.
Only once had Jesstin seen the whole family together, and his heart had never been so full, nor so empty.
But that wasn’t his destination this time.
He’d been putting off the visit for several reasons, the most important being he only ever intended to go once. Once and then be done, forever. He took his time getting there, collecting wildflowers from the side of the road instead of purchasing a proper bouquet because the decision had been impulsive, like so many of his were.
Riverhelm Citadel was as well-guarded as he remembered. He could have just approached the gates, but he hadn’t actually come up with a valid reason to be admitted, so he snuck in the back way. It was closer to where he wanted to be anyway.
The Skylark mausoleum was still one of the most unsettling places Jesstin had ever been. He hadn’t gone down since he was a little boy, but though decades had passed, nothing had changed. There was still the steady, disconcerting drip of water down the rock walls as he descended. Thick webs wove along the passage, across the steps, revealing the infrequency of visits. The eternal flame at the entrance had died, and the basket of sconces lay on the ground, covered by a dense crop of weeds.
Even without a torch, it wasn’t entirely dark in the crypt. No one had ever been able to explain to him where the light came from, and now older and at least somewhat wiser, he understood some questions were better left unanswered.
Crumbling cherubs gawped at him from the cracks of the dirt walls as he descended farther. The familiar sense of suffocation hit at the halfway mark, and he remembered why he and Gennady had only played in the catacombs once.
His ears rang with the echoes of his boots as he moved from one cavernous room to another, dodging cobwebs and debris. The dim illumination provided little assistance, but he ran his fingertips along the carved letters of the tombs and recited the names from memory. Every Skylark had seen the crude map of the final resting place of their ancestors. Every Skylark had memorized it.
Jesstin hesitated at the door to the next room, where his mother and Mathias were entombed. He glanced down at the flowers bunched in his sweaty hand and wondered what he was even doing. He’d already said everything that needed to be said with his mother. She wasn’t there. None of them were. It was all just stone and saga.
He dropped the flowers on the damp ground, shaking his head at himself—at everything he’d done since coming home. If he wasn’t working, he was spying on his family, slipping through hidden entrances to be close to them. He was glad Sesto hadn’t been around to remind him how dysfunctional it was.
Jesstin started back and ran into a tomb with a painful thud, cursing under his breath all the way to the steps. It was halfway up when he heard the footsteps and saw the shadow transit across the fading sunlight.
“Who’s there?” a man called down. “Hello? I know you’re there. I saw you go in.”
Jesstin wasn’t wearing a sword because his was still at the forge. There was a dagger in his boot, but if there was one guard, there were more. There was only one way in or out.
“I watched you go down,” said the man again.
Jesstin’s only reasonable choice was to act like he belonged there. “Coming up!” He jogged the rest of the way and found an elderly man watching him when he emerged.
It appeared he’d come alone, without guards.
“I should have announced myself at the gates. I’m a distant relative of the steward.”
The man continued his inspection, which gave Jesstin the opportunity for his own, and it took no time at all to realize this was no stranger.
Standing before him was his brother, Emrys.
Of all his kin, Emrys seemed to have weathered the worst of whatever had transpired the past three decades. His hunched posture was supported by a cane, held onto by an arthritic hand with a mild tremor. The lines around his rheumy eyes were deep, like the tributaries of a river. But he was still as elegant as ever, his jacket combed and his blouse steamed and smooth. His coiffed white hair gave off an air of refinement that distracted from his infirmities.
But if Jesstin didn’t stop evaluating these depressing changes in his brother, he’d lose his composure.
“And your name, son?” Emrys asked.
“Gennady Skylark,” Jesstin blurted, because a stupid answer was better than a delayed one. “I was passing through Riverchapel and wanted to pay respects.” He glanced at the ashy kiln.
“Disquieting, isn’t it? The way light somehow finds a way into the bowels of the earth?” Emrys chuckled. “How are you related to the family? You look familiar, but I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“I’m a grandson of Finneus,” Jesstin said, hoping it was vague and distant enough. Finneus had been Mathias’s father’s brother who had died before Jesstin was born. They’d never mingled with that side of the family, at least not back then.
“I regret we know little about Finneus and his descendants,” Emrys said. “You might be the first I’ve met.” He held out a hand. “Emrys Skylark. I’m the steward, and therefore your cousin.”
Sorrow hit Jesstin hard when their hands connected. Emrys had nearly been a man himself when Jesstin was born, so they’d never been close, but he’d always been there when Jesstin had needed him. Rhiain might have been louder in her love, but Emrys had never let him down when it mattered. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Steward.”
“Likewise. And steward, not for much longer.” Emrys hobbled to a bench and motioned for Jesstin to do the same. “How old are you, son?”
