I have never particularly enjoyed walking across scrublands. Not that I had a whole lot of experience. Mom would take me on long walks when I was younger, but it was mostly in the grasslands or copses around Keelwell. I think Dad would have worried had he known we left the walled protection of the city.

  Life is sacred for Mom, but somehow I think that The Scrub was not her favorite place. I agreed. It seemed like an endless sprawl of sun-baked bushes, dry air, and the kind of gritty sand that finds its way into your boots, your robes, and everywhere else.

  Connor looked around as we walked and said as he pointed ahead of us at our destination, where some tall stone buildings could just be seen beyond the next hill, “This is the very definition of scenic decay.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Nat chirped from somewhere behind me, her boots silent as mine crunched over a patch of dead thistles. “Graveyards are supposed to be moody. Artistic. It’s like... rustic doom.”

  “Doom shouldn’t rust,” Connor replied.

  I looked over my shoulder. Nat winked at me. Connor didn’t.

  Their tone had changed a bit since the battle with the werewolf. I think the reality that it was once a man settled on us harder than if it had just been a monster. I mean, it was a monster, just one with a human face hidden behind a long snout and very sharp teeth.

  As we all kept our thoughts to ourselves, we crested the last low hill and there it was: the Morgrave Rest, a forgotten cluster of crypts and monuments slouching away into the dust. Weathered stone angels had long since lost their wings, and several tombstones leaned on one another. At least, those still standing were leaning.

  “Okay,” Thomas said, “Let’s be respectful while we are here.”

  Nobody said anything. We all liked Thomas, but I admit that a part of me agreed to be respectful of the graveyard if it was respectful of me. Adventures in graveyards always came with sneaky tricks and monsters jumping out from behind buildings.

  That thought had me eyeing the dozen or so structures with a keener interest. One building, a ways off to the south, had been quite large, while the others ranged in size and seemed to be clustered in an area the size of the Keelwell Arena.

  “Is that an old house foundation?”Connor asked as he pointed at the larger structure.

  “Yes,” Nat answered. “The Corvells were a wealthy family a couple of centuries ago. They finally gave up on farming and trading in the scrublands and moved into the city, where they became one of the leading merchant families.”

  She had a wealth of information, but it only seemed to come out when it was important.

  “I know the Corvells,” I stated. “They make leather boots.”

  “And leather armor, among other things,” Nat added distractedly as she unrolled her parchment.

  Connor shook his head. “She has more trivia knowledge about our city than anyone I know other than grandpa Woody.

  “I take that as high praise, then.” She said as she positioned herself and then the scroll as if she were lining up buildings on a map.

  Which, as I watched her, was exactly what she was doing.

  Thomas walked over to her and Connor, catching on as well, asked, “Where did you get a map of around here. The only info we had was on the bulletin board card from the Post Office.”

  “The only info you had, you mean. I did my homework.” Nat corrected.

  Connor raised his eyebrows. “When did you have time to do your homework? We came straight here.”

  She sighed. “The quest for the Corvell Family ring has been posted for weeks. Since I knew I would be coming out here again soon anyway for more alchemical components, I looked into it.”

  Connor said, “Oh. Good thinking.”

  He looked over at me and shrugged his shoulders. “I thought coming out here in a group was my idea.”

  “And a very good idea it was, cousin,” Nat said as she looked up. “Okay, I make the crypt we need to one of the three on the westernmost end. Past the weeping elm, which—” she pointed toward a gnarled tree so lifeless it looked more like a prop than a plant— “might be that stick.”

  We moved cautiously into the graveyard. It may have once been flat and grassy, but time had overgrown it in places with scrub bushes, which were leafy and blooming in places.

  Nat walked beside me, her shortsword bouncing gently at her hip as she angled toward the back crypts.

  “You know,” she said, “this would be romantic if we weren’t here for alchemical bits and haunted jewelry.”

  “Oh, absolutely,” I said dryly. “Nothing says romance like corpse dust and secret family riddles.”

  She laughed, bright and unbothered. I tried not to smile, but her laughter made it hard.

  Somewhere ahead, a raven called once and then went silent.

  The graveyard was watching.

  We moved deeper into the graveyard, weaving between headstones that ranged from elegantly crumbling to enthusiastically mossy. Nat stopped at every type of moss we came across. Commor was losing patience.

  “Seriously?” You are checking moss. Now?”

  “Alchemists will be upwards of ten gold pieces per moss cutting in some cases.”

  “Oh?” He said with renewed interest.

  “Find any of those?”

  “No, but there are a few of the lesser types here. It is unusual to find them so far away from moisture. There must be an underground source of water under us.”

  We watched as she passed by most of the simple, green mosses, but did collect a few samples from the more colorful varieties as we moved along.

  On the way, we passed several grave markers that did their best to be memorable.

  “That is a peculiar hobby for an aristocrat,” I observed.

  Connor raised an eyebrow. “Or an idiot with poor wildlife boundaries.”

  Nat grinned. “He had ambition. You’ve got to respect that.”

  Thomas offered a silent prayer over the grave. “Let his soul rest far from the spiderbear.”

  I shook my head. Thomas was serious about his work, as we all are, but that may have been a bit over the top.

  When we reached the western corner, Nat had the map out again, tilting it at odd angles like it might reveal secrets if she squinted hard enough.

  “This one says it’s Corvell-adjacent,” she murmured, frowning at the curling ink lines. “So that’s one of three it could be. All to the far west, beyond the statue of Saint Rita.”

  “Saint Rita?” Thomas perked up. “She’s the patron of loneliness and lost causes.”

  “Oh good,” Connor said. “We’re already halfway blessed.”

  The statue in question was missing some parts that had either been damaged or did not weather well. What remained was pointing vaguely at the sky. Beyond it, three crypts stood more solid than most, although still weathered, worn, and ominous.

  I was really glad we were not here at night. I wasn’t sure my luck benefit would have seen me through the graveyard by Blinky, and here as well.

  We reached the first crypt. Its door was sealed with a rusted iron gate, vines creeping around its stone in a way that made me think of the gopher snakes Nat was looking for.

  The engraving read: “Grantham Family – Loyal Servants, All.”

  “I don’t think this is the one,” I said.

  Nat checked the map again. “Corvells were richer and more mysterious. The kind of people who used magical family riddles instead of locks.”

  Connor remarked, “Maybe the Granthams were the Corvells’ household staff. It’s big enough to house quite a few if it dips down into a lower crypt.

  “That’s a charming thought,” I said, not even considering a subterranean adventure.

  The second crypt loomed just ten yards beyond the first. It was half-sunken into the earth, the stairs leading down swallowed by shadow. No vines this time—just a family crest so weathered it looked like a thumbprint.

  “Anyone else feel the temperature drop?” Thomas asked.

  Connor squinted. “It’s just shade. And maybe mild dread.”

  We moved on to the third.

  As we got near, a blue magical aura appeared around the entire structure for a moment.

  “Did anyone see that?” I asked.

  They all looked at me.

  “See what?” Thomas asked.

  I figured it was magical vision which was still up from earlier. “I saw the whole structure outline itself in light blue.”

  “Light blue is the robe color of sorcery.” He observed.

  This one felt right. The crypt was wide and ornate, the stone carved with swirling floral motifs and a crest of a raven perched on a closed book. The inscription above the door read:

  “Well,” I said, “that sounds appropriately cryptic.”

  Nat ran a gloved hand along the doorframe. “There’s the riddle etched into the stone in neat, raised script.”

  Connor read it out loud:

  There was a long pause.

  “I don’t like the part where we die,” Connor said, deadpan.

  “I like the part where I get to speak dramatically,” Nat countered.

  “I don’t like how it somehow knew there would be four of us,” Thomas remarked.

  I have to admit that it had me wondering as well. It could be a coincidence. I mean, it had to be, right?

  “Well,” Nat said after a long pause, “it rhymed.”

  “Rhyming isn’t the issue,” Connor replied. “It’s the death part that worries me.”

  “You already mentioned that.” She said.

  Connor raised his hands. “I just thought it was important enough to mention, twice.”

  I stepped forward, brushing the dust from the stone words. “It mentions four. That’s us. Obviously.”

  “Obvious to you,” Connor muttered.

  “Each their gift,” Thomas echoed thoughtfully. “Sounds like it wants us to use our... strengths?”

  “Or announce them,” I said. “Maybe it’s literal. ‘Speak in turn.’ We state our roles or abilities—something about our essence. Enchanter, cleric, elementalist, bard. A kind of verbal key.”

  Connor folded his arms. “If this triggers a magical trap, I reserve the right to say I told you so from beyond the grave.”

  “Noted,” I said.

  We examined the stone platform before the sealed door. Four circular depressions were carved into the floor in a neat arc. Each was etched with an ancient rune and was the size of a dinner plate.

  I looked at the runes. “Each has the runic symbol for truth in its center, but there is a lot of additional work around the edges that could also be runes.” I walked around each, careful not to step inside them.

  “Yes, there is a repeated runic script that is very artistic and stretched out to make it look like a repeating pattern.”

  “What do they say?” Nat asked.

  “Well, this one is definitely the symbol for heat or flame.”

  “Check my box,” Connor claimed.

  Moving to the next, I said, “This one represents light.”

  “Probably mine,” Thomas observed.

  I nodded. “This one is for sound or music, and the other is for magic.”

  Nat said, “That would be me and you, then.”

  “Wait, I could be magic,” Connor complained.

  “Cool it, hot head. We all use magic, but an enchanter uses magic. You know?”

  “Well, it is a way that makes sense for each of us.”

  “Anybody else just a little worried that the runes seemed to be made for us, specifically?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that since we first read the riddle.”

  We stood in silence for a few more minutes.

  “It says the four stand firm,” Thomas said. “So we stand on them. In the right order.”

  Nat tapped one with the toe of her boot. “What’s the wrong order? You explode? Do you sink into the ground? You get sarcastic commentary from beyond?”

  The other three of us took a quick step back.

  “If it’s the last one,” Connor said, “I’m immortal.”

  True that. I thought to myself as I considered the lines again. “Each their gift, each their stone... it’s a combination of role and place. The stones aren’t labeled, but maybe we can match them by affinity. I’m attuned to the rune of Resonance—that one there is closest.”

  And with an irritated wave at his cousin, Connor continued, “And don’t go dancing on gravestones. Let’s take this one step at a time.”

  There was another pause.

  “Right,” I sighed. “So we stand on our stones and say... what? Our name? Our class?”

  “Maybe a sentence,” Thomas said. “It says ‘heart and breath.’ Something meaningful.”

  Connor rolled his eyes. “Of course, the crypt wants a speech.”

  With no other options jumping out at us, we stepped into place, each on our chosen rune. The stone under my boots felt oddly warm, like it remembered being important.

  I took a breath. “We’ll go in order. I’ll start.”

  The others nodded.

  I raised my chin, feeling faintly ridiculous, and declared, “I am Gwydion Istari, enchanter of the Keelwell’s guild of enchanters and master crafter of jewelry and gemwork.”

  The rune beneath me glowed a soft yellow.

  “Nice touch. We need to speak later.” Nat said.

  Thomas stepped forward. “I am Thomas, cleric of The Way, servant of light and protector of life.”

  His rune flared with pale white light.

  Connor sighed and lifted his chin with theatrical disdain. “I am Connor of Ashgate, elementalist of flame, speaker of wit, and extremely reluctant participant in graveyard recitations.”

  The fire rune blazed a fiery topaz, reminding me of his elemental gem color.

  Nat gave a little bow. “I am Natalyia, bard of boldness, charm of ten cities, and secret-keeper of my cousin’s childhood secrets.”

  Connor twitched. Nat’s rune glowed deep violet.

  There was a rumble beneath our feet.

  For a moment, nothing happened. But then…