The Bonemender (11 page)

“The western pass, on our side at least, is narrow and treacherous. It would be most difficult to move a sizeable army through it. The Maronnais are posting a small sentry force there, with a standing request to Barilles to send reinforcements. The middle and eastern passes both seem possible. We will guard the Skyway Pass, the Maronnais the Eastern Gateway—again with a request to Gamier for additional troops. We also need to leave a sizeable force within Verdeau, in case we fail to stop them in the foothills.”

“What if they don’t come, after all this?” It was Poutin. “What if all this fuss and expense is for nothing?”

“Then we will have erred on the side of caution, and we will hope the people will forgive us,” said Jerome impatiently. “They will not forgive us, on the other hand, if we allow them to be slaughtered through carelessness.”

“They will come.” Gabrielle surprised herself by voicing what she had only meant to think.

“What makes you so sure?” snapped Poutin.

How she wished she had said nothing. “I have dreamed it,” she confessed, bracing herself for Poutin’s scorn. But the memory of the dream that had stalked her sleep through the long winter must have been reflected in her face because Poutin on the verge of ridicule, fell silent.

In her dream, Gabrielle struggled to join together a rising tide of dismembered bodies. They were everywhere, awash with blood—legs, arms, trunks and the worst, the heads, crying out and imploring her—and the more she tried to match them up and piece them together, the more they piled up around her. In the backdrop of her dream, the battle raged, unseen but terrifying, unquestionably real. She was sure now. The Greffaires were coming.

“Dominic stays with the reserve army, at the crossroads north of Chênier,” continued Jerome. “He is charged with the defense of Verdeau proper and the royal seat. Tristan and I will travel to La Maronne to meet the enemy. Gabrielle, it is time to call in the bonemenders who will serve our forces and decide who stays with the home force and who travels to the central pass.”

Gabrielle had nodded agreement. She had not revealed her intention to undertake the journey herself.

She would go, though. The only question was how.

N
OW
G
ABRIELLE LEANED
over the north wall of the tower and found the silvery gleam of the Avine River. Pulling her cloak tight around her shoulders, she stared at the northern horizon, just a guessed-at shape of denser black against the night sky. Would Elf eyes see the contours of the land clearly, she wondered, even in the dark? Danaïs and Féolan had once pointed out a goshawk that was no more than a black speck in the sky. Gabrielle had thought they were pretending, teasing her, until they had proved their skill. Standing against the far wall of her clinic, each had read aloud from a heavy, leather-bound herbal that she held open against her chest. At that distance, all she could see was a meaningless blur on the page.

Gabrielle imagined the journey upriver, through the farthest reaches of La Maronne to the edge of the Krylians. She thought of the Greffaires, preparing for war, unseen behind the curtain of the mountains. And she thought of Féolan and his people, hidden away in the forests and valleys of the Maronnais highlands. Did they too prepare for war?

I
N THE WARMTH
of her chamber, Gabrielle lit a fire in the tiny stove, wrapped a blanket over her nightgown and sat herself on the thick patterned rug before the fire. There was no point in trying to sleep yet, not with her mind so full of questions.

A sudden wail from Sylvain drifted down the hall, followed by the muffled voices of his parents. Having Dominic’s family here had saved her, she thought. Justine and her baby, the two children, had provided the best possible distraction from her own disquiet. Madeleine and Matthieu blew through the castle like a couple of charming whirlwinds, full of life and laughter and endless demands. And Justine had always been a good friend.

But oh, she missed Tristan. He alone of her family, unimpressed by her grave demeanor and strange power, brought out her playfulness and sense of humor. She missed his teasing as much as she missed his warm heart. He had stayed to dinner tonight, shoveling in an astonishing amount of food. “Don’t they feed you at the barracks?” she had demanded.

“They feed us lots, but they don’t feed us well. Not like this,” he had explained. “I need to dig deep while I can.”

“Careful you don’t throw up like I did,” cautioned Matthieu.

“Never you fear, my lad. I can hold my grub with the best of them,” boasted Tristan, grinning through a mouthful of pheasant. He reached past his older brother and tickled Matthieu in the ribs, then had to tickle Madeleine under the table just to be fair. The two children squirmed and giggled. It would be a long time, perhaps, before they would share such a light-hearted family meal again.

And she missed Féolan, still. His memory was sharp as a shard of glass. Gabrielle went to the carved box and pulled out the tiny necklace her mother had given her. “You were wearing it when I found you,” Solange had explained. “I tried to save the shawl too, but the mice got into the trunk where it was stored.”

The necklace was silver, the finest work she had ever seen. Tiny oval links led to a polished green stone, small as a droplet, embedded in a delicate silver setting. Gabrielle held it now in the palm of her hand. It made her feel strange to feel it on her skin, to think it had once circled her own neck. Sometimes when she held it she imagined things—snatches of song, voices, a woman’s eyes—and would then put it away hurriedly, ashamed of the weakness that made her draw memories out of her own wishful thinking.

T
HE
garrison was more heavily guarded now that the invasion was imminent, for conscripts were not the only ones who might lose their nerve and desert. Féolan, reasoning the best way to slip past a sentry was to
be
the sentry, had volunteered for duty but been denied because of his stutter. A bitter jest, he thought, that a charade meant to protect him should cost so dear.

He was not especially worried about getting out. He could move as silently as a cat, and his own cloak, which despite the risk he had kept buried at the bottom of his kit against this day, would be almost invisible on a dark night. He was worried about speed. If they came after him on horseback, he would soon be overtaken and might be trapped in the pass with no cover. Trying to find another route through the mountains in late winter would be slow at best and might well be fatal. Yet he must stay ahead of the invasion force.

Could he take a horse? The chances of leaving secretly with a horse were slim, and once the foothills became treacherous, a horse would slow him down at night. His own night vision would serve him better. Féolan decided he would have to go on foot.

The moon had waned to a quarter. He could not wait for it to be gone altogether. On a day when the sky was layered with thick gray cloud promising a night rain that would, with any luck,
both limit the sentries’ vision and distract them with their own discomfort, he made his decision. He would leave that night.

H
E WAS CAREFUL
in the ring that day, not wanting to draw any last-minute attention to himself. Yet not even the most wary can guard against freak accidents.

It happened during a one-on-one sparring match. He had just delivered a powerful swing with the battle-ax, the kind of heavy blow his training commander approved of. It took a lot of power to slice through armor, though to his mind it was a lumbering stroke, easy to anticipate and avoid. He slowed it down just the same, enough to ensure his partner had time to duck or parry.

The two axes clashed together with a force that jolted Féolan’s shoulder. And then the jarring collision was suddenly released as his ax-head flew free of its shaft and sailed through the air.

“‘Ware!” shouted the trainer, but the warning came too late. A soldier, released from the field, helmet under his arm, was stowing his weapons in the arms barrels. The heavy ax-head clipped the top of his head, stuck there for one grisly second and then thudded to the ground. Féolan had a queasy glimpse of a red flap of scalp before the soldier crumpled, hands clapped around his head.

Féolan leaped to his side. “On my honor, man, I am sorry!” He ripped off his own helmet and gauntlets, laid a steadying hand on the man’s back. “Can I help you to the surgeon’s?” He looked to the training commander, expecting a nod of permission, and his own scalp prickled at the man’s narrowed, suspicious glare.

Mistake on mistake. You let your guard down, he accused himself. Never mind the disappearance of the stutter, “On my honor” was a phrase he had never heard here. He didn’t even know if the Basin Humans used it.

“D
AMN YOUR EYES!
” A heavy gauntlet collided against Féolan’s temple, clutched at him, ripped. Féolan felt a flare of pain, and the injured man fell back into his own blood with a fistful of dark hair dangling from his glove. Along with the hair, Féolan saw with alarm, was the braided string he tied around his head to keep his chopped hair out of his eyes and over his ears. His hand flew to the spot. There was little hair left there to smooth down.

“You better hope I don’t recover,” the wounded soldier snarled. “Cuz when I do, I’ll bloody kill you for this. Stuttering half-wit!”

Féolan stood, hoping the outburst had been enough to distract the trainer, and jammed the helmet back on his head. Perhaps, he told himself, they would return to their exercises.

“Brakar.” Or perhaps not. Féolan turned, cursing his carelessness. Three guards, swords drawn, now flanked his commanding officer. “Remove your armor.”

Wordlessly, Féolan stripped down. Free of armor, he could outrun all of these men, but he saw no hope of fighting his way through the entire camp. The training commander swaggered up to him.

“Where are you from, soldier?”

“P-p-p-agstak, Suh, Suh, Sir.” Lay it on thick, lad. The thought was a bitter sneer. That stutter just cooked your goose, but maybe it will hide the fact that you don’t know how to pronounce your hometown.

“Pah-pah-pah,” the trainer imitated. “Lot of freaks in Pagstak, are there?” The contempt in the man’s face gave Féolan sudden hope. It didn’t strike him as a look one would give a dangerous spy. “Maybe people with webbing between their toes and one leg
longer than the other? More people with animal ears? Or is it just you?” Sniggers rippled among the men, and Féolan ducked his head in apparent shame.

“Take him to the brig,” the trainer told the guards. “The man smells off as old meat. How’d a defective blacksmith from Pagstak learn to fight like he does, anyway? He’s hiding something, I’d bet my last bottle on it. I don’t want him back here until he’s been questioned and cleared.”

“A
BSOLUTELY NOT.
”

Jerome’s face was red with anger. He had just been presented with Gabrielle’s list of recruited bonemenders.

“Father, it makes sense.” Appealing to Jerome’s reason didn’t seem a promising approach, but Gabrielle felt bound to try. “The bonemenders who go to the mountains must be fit and able-bodied themselves to make the journey and then work long and hard without a break. From within that group, we chose first those who were unwed, without children.” She gave her father a level glance. “That’s me.” Jerome was about to cut in, but she hurried on.

“Plus, they need a leader. These bonemenders are used to working alone. Here they will need to work in a team. Someone has to organize the clinic area, figure out who does what and what goes where.”

“Oh, and I suppose you are the only person who can do this?”

“Not the only person,” said Gabrielle. “But I have organized the process thus far. I believe they would accept me as their leader.”

“No. You will not go.”

“Father.” She was down to her last card. “Father, I am not some little boy, imagining war is a great adventure. I truly have no wish
to see any of it. But I believe that I must go. I can’t explain it well, but I feel certain I will be needed.”

“I care not for your dreams and peculiar feelings!” Jerome was storming now, striding about the room. “It is enough that I put my son’s life on the line. I will not have my daughter wallowing in the muck of war as well!” He left the study abruptly, leaving Gabrielle talking to herself.

“What if it were your son who needed me?”

F
ÉOLAN
cast an eye over his cellmates. Huddled on a filthy dirt floor, most without so much as a cloak for warmth, they nevertheless all appeared to be asleep.

Féolan would not be sleeping this night. His one stroke of luck had been the gaoler’s decision to send him for questioning the following day. “You’ll be a better talker after a couple of missed meals and a night with us, I’ll warrant,” he had said. Féolan did not intend to find out if the man was right. Come daybreak, he would be long gone—or dead.

The brig was not much to boast of—an ill-constructed cabin, minded at night by a single bored guard. It was not a true prison. It was used rather to punish laziness, insubordination and incompetence, so there was little need for elaborate precautions against escape. The lock was crude, embedded right into the door.

Slumped against the back wall, Féolan waited for his moment. He let his fingers play over the graceful curve of the Elvish knife hasp, still smooth against his shin. Two strokes of luck, after all. They apparently thought so little of him that they had done only a cursory pat down for hidden weapons.

His senses crackled to the alert as the guard stretched and yawned at his little table, pushed his chair back with a grunt and padded to the bucket that served as a urinal at the far end of the
guardroom. Féolan had flitted silently to the door before the man had unbuttoned himself. The slim blade tip slipped into the keyhole, and deft Elvish fingers and sensitive ears found the catch in seconds. Féolan winced at the loud click as the lock released, but it must have been no louder in the guard’s ears than the splash of his water in the tin bucket, for he never looked up.