Sidri took a long time to fall asleep that night, fighting the pull of cold hands as they reached into her. In her dream, she rose from bed and walked to the mouth of the mine nearest the shack, and listened to many voices calling to her, accusing each other. She tried to ask them who they had been, what they wanted, but every time they tried to speak over each other, one vague image of a face rising out of the mist only to be pulled back in and replaced with another.

They woke the next morning to a knock on the door; Dinchal had brought them a stack of griddle cakes with small pats of goatsmilk butter, and some soured milk to drink. He looked around the shack as though he feared some strange doings, but seemed faintly disappointed when he found it nearly untouched. He invited himself to one of the chairs at the table as they ate.

"Priya told me to ask you, teacher, if you might refer us to a . . .erm . . . necromancer," he said, saying the last word quietly. "If it turns out it's a curse like we say. Shamans still rub elbows with, ah, that sort, right?"

"Not all of us," Sidri said. "I haven't met one in years; I don't even know how many are still around."

Dinchal looked relieved. "That's a shame, but at least I can tell her I asked now. By the way, I tried to find those boys first thing this morning, but they must already be in the mine."

"They go in there?" Sidri asked, arching a brow.

"Oh yes, almost every day," Dinchal said, laughing. "They took the place over some time last year. Now that I think about it, Jawal said he saw one of the ghosts in there. Who knows what they're getting up to, but young folks make their own fun, I suppose." He stared off; Sidri and Jiriga both felt the looming threat of a nostalgic story and abruptly stood up from the table.

"Please thank your wife for the fine breakfast; we should be getting started right away. If we don't work fast, someone else might steal

the bounty out from under us," Sidri said.

"Oh. Of course, I understand how it is. Just bring those plates back when you can," he said, casting a longing glance at what remained of their meals. As he was shuffling out, he looked back over his shoulder. "This is a peaceful village, and much as I'd like to believe you that this all just bandits, we don't think that's true and the people don't know you. Please try to remember that."

What he really means, Sidri thought, is that the villagers all talk to him and he'll be keeping track of everything we do wrong. She smiled softly at him until he'd shut the door behind him.

"Meddlesome old fool." Jiriga rolled his eyes. "But at least his big mouth is helpful. One of us should talk to the boys."

"I agree."

Jiriga frowned. "Me?"

"Have you met a village boy who doesn't want to hear war stories? Just show them that rifle and they'll be eating out of your hands."

"Father Sky take your eyes." He stuffed a fistful of griddle cake into his mouth and chewed his annoyance away. "What about you?"

"Dinchal said the people who kept the shrine tended goats, right? The goatherds are the most likely people to have lived in the area before

the mining started. I'm going to see if anyone has a different story to tell."

They finished their meal and parted ways. Though Jiriga didn't care for children, she envied him his half of the work; the young were usually looser-lipped, so that you could learn what you wanted to without ever asking a straight question. She had little hope that the adults would freely share their worries and strange dreams.

That would be the shortest road to a clean exorcism, but if I go around asking necromancer questions, she thought, that's one more hint for the Ministry to find us by.

Though the few villagers she met made no effort to be welcoming, they seemed content to regard her as merely an oddity now that a night had

passed without some new evil descending on them. She approached a woman who looked not far off her age and after a brief chat learned

which nearby slopes the goatherds grazed their flocks on, went back for her mule and rode out to look for them. She found four of them sitting on small flat rocks strewn along the face of a shallow, weed-covered incline, watching their animals move about in knots, each one's marked with patterned kerchiefs about the neck.

"Excuse me, may I have a word?" Sidri dismounted; after the goatherds had had a moment to study her, the three sitting nearest each other

bowed their heads slightly, but never took their eyes off her face.

"You must be the bounty-hunting shaman we heard about," one said.

"The women were saying you don't believe us about the curse." This one snorted. "What kind of shaman don't believe in curses?"

They muttered among themselves for a moment, giving vent to their annoyances, then looked up at her expectantly. She had permission to

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

proceed.

"I was hoping to learn a bit more about the history of the place."

"Old Dinchal didn't already bore you with his stories?" The three snickered.

"I'm curious to hear it from someone who lived here before the mine was opened," Sidri said. "About the shrine, especially."

"The three of us were just boys when the mine came. You'll want to talk to Pran," one said, standing up, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Hey, Pran!" he shouted at the fourth man sitting several paces off.

Sidri kept a laugh to herself. I wonder if Jiriga will want to ditch that as a cover name after this, she thought. The man who approached her now, throwing occasional glances over his shoulder at his goats, was at least ten years older than the other three. His thick, neck-length hair was grey through and through, but his eyes were still clear, and fixed on her garb. He bowed his head slightly as he drew near.

"You want something with me, teacher?"

Sidri explained; Pran grunted and asked her to sit with him so he could mind his flock. The others joked that they were disappointed to miss out on his folktales; he paid no mind, and offered her his stone seat, sitting on the ground next to it.

"Word is Dinchal talked to you and your partner when you showed up yesterday," he said, after a quiet moment. "He tell you some things?"

"He did."

"Like how the mine folks paid off the shrine keepers to clear out?" He laughed bitterly. "He say what happened to the ones who didn't take the deal?"

"He made it sound like everyone did," Sidri said, studying his face. "Are you saying there was foul play?"

Pran sighed, spitting into the dirt; remembering he was sat next to what he believed to be a shaman, he muttered an apology, sighed again. "Nothing I can say for sure, mind you. Never gone in the mines myself. But let me tell you, those folks were proud of that shrine, and the rest of us living 'round it were proud of them. They could read and write, you know that? They'd wander 'round and teach anyone who had the time. That's how I came to know my letters since I was a boy."

His lips drew into a faint smile as he thought back to some fond moment, then darkened. "Most of them left, but four of them stayed, as I remember. They swore they'd keep the shrine no matter what. The mine folks sent people in to talk to them, but got nowhere. Then one morning word is the holdouts slipped away in the night. Doesn't feel true to me. Never did. But that's what folk said, and they said it enough until it stuck."

"Is this why you didn't want to say anything around the others? Because they don't believe you?"

"Who cares what they think. There's a woman, Lanja, older than me, she remembers it like I do, too. And now people are seeing things in their

dreams. Heard the son of the old mine boss got attacked by a ghost in the mine, too. Sounds like revenge, don't you think?"

Attacked? Sidri thought. Dinchal didn't mention that detail; an odd one to leave out for someone who believes the dead are cursing the place. They spoke for half an hour more, but just as Sidri was about to leave, something Dinchal had mentioned off-hand started to nag her.

"There were known bandits in this area until recently, I've heard. Do you know anything about them?"

"Sure. A little while before that mine boss went missing, started having merchants and travelers robbed on the roads around here."

"How violent were they?" Sidri asked. "Did they kill their victims or . . .?"

"They had their share of gunfights, or so I've heard. There was a rumor going around for a while that their leader got himself gutshot, but must have been wrong since they were back at not long after. Last I heard, they'd left the territory for somewhere richer."

She asked him how he could find Lanja, thanked him for his time, and rode back to the village. Lanja's home was a small mud-brick dwelling

in the old style beyond the western edge of the village; something like it may well have been standing on that spot in her great-grandfather's day. Not far from it was an ancient well, a half-rotted bucket sat on the lip. All was quiet, and the thin wooden door was shut. She had seen such dwellings thousands of times, but she felt a chill as she drew near it. Something was inside. She rode her mule around the grounds once, calling out for anyone, but hearing no response, she dismounted, opened the door and stepped inside.

A strong smell of beer immediately wafted over her; crocks covered most of the floor space, sheaves of dry grains were stacked against the walls; this was a brewer's house. Empty: probably meeting with a merchant somewhere to sell her goods. The chill grew stronger, and someone whispered indistinctly in her head.

She was drawn to a corner of the house, where a small table stood. Underneath, ragged cloths were folded and stacked atop each other; she moved them aside one by one until she saw a thick book, the edges of its pages yellowed with time, its leather binding cracked and scarred. When she touched it, the scene from her dream flashed through her mind again, but one face from the roil of ghosts managed to hold its form then; he was a man of middle age, sorrow cutting deep lines into his features. His eyes stared past Sidri at something else, his brow twitching as though what he saw pained him, but he could not say so.

Suddenly, he noticed her presence, and reached out for her face; the other voices began to speak again. Tendrils of mist rose from the book

and wrapped up along her arm, tugging on her soul. Finally, the words became distinct.

"Return them," they whispered. "Return them. They belong with us." There were even more of them than she had thought; she took in a deep

breath, grounding her senses by the smell of the beer, and took hold of the book with both hands, repulsing each grasping soul with her will. She knew nothing of them, had nothing she could say to ease them, even though each one's hold on the book was weak, there were so many. Though she felt frozen through on the inside, sweat beaded on her brow. She could not say how long she saw the edges of her own ghost being drawn into the book.

Release me now, she thought, and I promise to help you. You can touch my soul, you know what I am; you know what I can do for you. Release

me and be gone from this book!

The image of that forlorn face appeared in her mind again; the cold receded, the pull yielded by the least degree. She seized her moment and poured her will into the book, gripping it just as firmly with her soul as with her hands, and pulling it from the boundary of life and death. The mist dissipated, and she loosened her vicelike grip on the leather binding, sitting back and gulping down each breath. She looked around.

Still alone, she thought. Good thing, that would have been hard to explain. After a moment's rest, she reached out and opened to the first page. In a practiced hand was written: 'Record of the Shrine to Imashra, begun by Geddha, her humble servant.'