The Bonemender

by Holly Bennett

  AND TRISTAN, TRUE to his word, wasted no time in unearthing information about their guests’ travels. At the breakfast table one morning, he reported his findings.

  “They are scouts for the Elves. Féolan is the head scout, but I gather they are few in number. He says the Elves have become so isolated, living in little hidden pockets in the northern forests, that without the scouts they wouldn’t know what’s going on in the larger world.”

  “A scout,” grunted Jerome. “Not much more than a foot soldier, is it? And we seat him at our table like a high nobleman.”

  Gabrielle winced. The stock her father placed on rank had bothered her ever since she had become a bonemender. Traveling with her teacher, Marcus, to the outlying villages treating commoners and nobles alike had taught her that nobility, and its opposite, could be found among all people.

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Tris replied. He reached for the teapot. “He seems to know the decision-makers and a lot about their overall strategies, at any rate. He’s the person who saw the need for the scouts in the first place and persuaded their leaders, the Council, I think he called it, to establish regular forays.” Tris gulped at the scalding tea, wedged most of a slice of bread into his mouth and swallowed just enough to draw air before adding, “He seemed about to say more at that point but stopped himself. Said something about it not being the time. Very intriguing.”

  “You may find out soon enough, Tristan,” said Solange. “Féolan has requested a formal audience with us. He says he has news that could affect the security of the kingdom.”

  “I’ve asked the First General and the Head of King’s Council to attend,” said Jerome. “You two should be there as well. You know him best, and we will need to judge the credibility of this ‘news’ of his. Ten bells, in the west study. Let’s hope it’s worth our while.”

  CHAPTER 4

  TRISTAN was right; Féolan knew how to conduct himself at high levels. Ushered into the formal, wood-paneled chamber by a page, Féolan made his greetings with his customary grave courtesy as he was introduced to Jerome’s advisors: First General Fortin, a stocky, plain-spoken man whose incisive mind had proved invaluable many times over Jerome’s reign; and Head Councilor Poutin, who inclined his head over his long nose with ill-disguised boredom. Féolan appeared completely at ease as he took his seat at the heavy oak table across from four of the most powerful men in Verdeau. His report, however, was brisk and to the point.

  “Your Grace, I have already told your son that I am a scout for the Elves of Stonewater. That is true, but it is only part of my role, which you might call in your language First Foreign Ambassador. It is a small role these days, as the Elves have little contact with other people, but it does give me authority to discuss matters of state with foreign powers.” Féolan glanced around the table, inviting questions.

  Poutin looked stunned, Gabrielle noticed with amusement. Jerome was not overly fond of the pompous head of King’s Council, and Gabrielle was sure her father had deliberately failed to mention the identity of their guest. That will keep him quiet for a bit, she thought. Tristan would also be enjoying Poutin’s discomfiture. She was careful not to meet his eye.

  What Féolan said next erased all such thoughts from her head.

  “Our last scouting trip began in the Krylian Mountains. I’m sure you know that in the steppes beyond those mountains live the Gref Orisé, at least, that is our name for them.”

  “The Greffaires,” muttered General Fortin. “Though I doubt many in Verdeau have heard of them.”

  “We are closer neighbors, and Elf memory is long,” said Féolan. “The Gref Orisé have not crossed into these lands for hundreds of years, but your histories will record that about four centuries ago they poured over the mountains in a massive invasion. Only after many long months of battle were our combined armies able to repel them. After that war the Elves retreated to the hidden valleys where we now make our home and turned away from the affairs of men.

  “My news is this: The Gref Orisé have a military encampment on this side of the mountains—one that we discovered, and who knows how many we did not? Their men are mapping routes and stocking supply stations.” Féolan paused, letting his words sink in. “I fear you must prepare for war.”

  No one spoke. Gabrielle felt her features freeze at Féolan’s blunt announcement and saw the same blank shock on the faces around the table.

  It was the general who broke the silence. “This news is very important, and I thank you for it,” he began. “But does this camp really threaten us? Our lands do not extend into the far mountains. Even La Maronne stretches only into the foothills. The fact that the Greffaires travel mountains that are no one’s territory, for an unknown purpose, does not necessarily mean they intend invasion.”

  The head councilor nodded.

  King Jerome did not. “Armies rarely venture beyond their territory for no reason,” he said. “Though they could, I suppose, simply be gathering information for defense purposes. Do you have reason to believe otherwise,” he asked Féolan, “besides the lessons of history?”

  “Unfortunately, I do,” replied Féolan. His gray eyes scanned the room, catching each person’s gaze. Gabrielle was chilled by their cold resolve. Féolan’s graceful beauty had not left him, but from underneath it had emerged a steely strength. She would not wish to meet this man in battle. “We captured two men and interrogated them separately. They both, eventually, told the same story. They admit the Gref Orisé are training for war, gathering men and arms all along their side of the Krylian Mountains. Their captains tell them they will sweep through the Basin to the sea.

  “I sent two scouts back to inform my Council, before continuing on,” added Féolan. “Though we are well hidden, and our lands not especially prized, we may still be under threat. But the Human settlements certainly are.” He turned, now, to address King Jerome directly. “Your Grace, you must prepare for war. And you must engage the neighboring kingdoms. If you do not stand together, the entire Basin may fall.”

  Jerome sat back in his chair and dragged a hand over his face as though to mop his thoughts clear. Gabrielle saw in the familiar gesture a reflection of her own doubts. They could, and no doubt would, prepare their own defenses. But the four small royalties in the Krylian Basin, a squarish territory ringed by the Krylian Mountain range to the north and west, and by the Gray Sea to east and south, was an alliance only in the most casual sense. Gamier, Barilles, La Maronne and her own Verdeau shared the Basin peaceably, traded, intermarried, spoke the same tongue, but never in living memory had they acted decisively together. It would be no easy task to forge an effective military alliance at short notice.

  “How much time do you think we have?” It was Tristan, cutting to the heart as usual.

  “I haven’t enough information to be sure,” Féolan said. “If they are not ready by early autumn—and my guess is they won’t be, but it’s a shaky guess based on the brief observation of one small camp and the dubious testimony of two low-level soldiers—then I believe they’ll wait through the winter. Travel is too treacherous in the mountains. And they won’t launch in autumn unless they’re very confident. For the same reason, a retreat over the mountains in winter would be disastrous. So, with luck you may have until spring.” He didn’t need to add what everyone in the room knew. An autumn invasion would catch them almost entirely unprepared.

  He glanced at Gabrielle, his eyes troubled. “Your port of Blanchette is the best on the coast. I fear Verdeau will be their primary target.”

  “YOUR DISCUSSION IS INVITED.” King Jerome rarely resorted to this traditional phrasing with his closest advisors. In case anyone had missed it, he was signaling the gravity of the situation.

  With Féolan dismissed from the meeting, Councilor Poutin found his voice, along with his superior manner.

  “Sire, we know nothing of this man, this so-called Elf. He calls himself a scout. To me, that is merely another word for spy. What is to say he is a friend and not a
n enemy? Perhaps he does merely report honestly on what he has seen. But what if he does not, and his purpose is to assess our strength for some hostile purpose of his own people?”

  “Oh, for the—” Tristan half-rose from the table, but Jerome silenced his outburst with an abrupt gesture.

  “Tristan, sit down. The question is fair. An honest face may speak dishonest words.” Jerome’s children often grew weary of his old sayings, but Gabrielle had to admit the wisdom in this one.

  “My King.” Gabrielle too, followed the formal rules of the King’s Council in her address. “Because Féolan’s companion, Danaïs, is grievously injured, I have spent more time than anyone with these Elves.” Poutin looked sour. No doubt, Gabrielle thought with some sympathy, he wondered how many other mythical beings were visiting Chênier without his knowledge. “I am sure Féolan is sincere. His concern is genuine as is his gratitude. He does not mean us harm.”

  Jerome sighed. “My instinct is the same, Gabrielle. I believe he can be trusted. Yet I cannot expect to convince the other kingdoms to call their men to arms on the strength of my instinct.”

  “Then we must confirm Féolan’s report,” the General said. “If he will tell us where the camp is, I will send scouts of my own. Meantime, Sire, I suggest we begin our own preparations.”

  GABRIELLE FOUND FÉOLAN in the clinic with Danaïs.

  “They will take action?” he asked her.

  She nodded. “I’m afraid you won’t see much of Tristan for the rest of your stay. He’ll be kept busy now.”

  “What about you?” asked Danaïs.

  She forced a smile. “I’m a bonemender, not a military strategist. And my goal for today is to get you out of bed.”

  Gingerly at first, Danaïs managed the slow, supported walk into the small garden outside the clinic. He sat on the bench with his leg propped up and lifted his face to the sun while Gabrielle explained the next step of his healing.

  “It’s mostly up to you now, Danaïs. If you want to regain your full strength you have to begin working the leg. Start with walking, a little farther each day. Take if carefully, though. You have to push a little, or the flesh of your leg will stiffen and shorten around the scar. But if you push too hard, you will re-injure yourself.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Danaïs said humbly, ducking his head and wringing his hands like a downtrodden servant.

  “None of your cheek. I’m not joking.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The three sat companionably together. The day was flawless, all blue sky and gentle breeze, but in the silence Gabrielle’s mind returned to the discussion in the king’s chamber. A sense of foreboding crept over her. The scouts would take too long. The alliance would come together too late. And what then?

  A hand touched her shoulder, jarring her out of her gloom. “I am sorry to be the bearer of such news,” said Féolan.

  Gabrielle shrugged. “I wish I could talk with you about it. But we’ve been told to keep War Council discussions secret.” She could hardly believe that Verdeau now had a War Council.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he replied. “It means the matter is being taken seriously.”

  “They will really come?”

  “I believe so. But they cannot, now, take the country by surprise. You must trust in your father and his general.”

  Gabrielle nodded. Her eyes followed the heavy path of a bumble bee as it lumbered from one red bergamot blossom to another, but her mind brooded on the future. With an effort, she turned away from her gloomy thoughts.

  “How did you two end up doing this? The scouting, I mean.”

  “That is Féolan’s story,” Danaïs said. “I will leave it to him, while I sleep here in the sun.”

  Féolan thought for a moment. “The beginning is easy enough,” he said. “I had a young man’s wanderlust, and I did not see why it should be confined to the wildernesses my people love to roam. There was a whole civilization to explore, and I thought, Why do we commune with trees and beasts, but not with Humans? Surely they are at least as interesting.”

  “Thank-you very much,” said Gabrielle, and Danaïs, on the chair beside her, smirked in his “sleep.”

  “I expressed that badly,” Féolan apologized. “But in truth my thoughts at the time were not far ahead of my words. I studied Krylaise and began to visit Human towns on my travels. And I learned that we ignored the world around us at our peril. Pirates were raiding along the coast; an epidemic raged among the Gamier sheep. These things could affect us. Yet at the time, we would not even have known if the Humans became hostile to our settlements. So it was no act of genius to conclude we needed to have Elves—Elves who could speak the language and be at ease among Humans—keeping abreast of Human affairs.”

  “Yes,” Gabrielle nodded. “It seems odd to me that no one had thought of it before.” She tried to imagine a Verdeau that never had contact with the neighboring kingdoms of the Basin, and the very idea seemed absurd.

  “My people were not always so isolated,” said Féolan, “but most now are content, it seems, to live in their own secluded world. For some reason, I am not.”

  “Ah, and that’s the real question,” Danaïs chimed in. “Why does Féolan, who could be settling down, taking on some responsible position which would groom him for a place on Council— it’s true, Féolan, with your parentage you would have only to stay out of trouble and it would be yours—instead choose to head up the scouts? For the rest of us, it is only an occasional duty, a chance to travel and learn, and then go home. He is away as often as not.”

  Gabrielle gazed at Féolan. There were bonemenders, she knew, who lived thus, traveling ever from village to village. It seemed a rootless kind of life.

  His smile seemed a little embarrassed. “Danaïs makes me sound like a vagabond. It’s not that I dislike my home. I suppose ... well, I’ve come to feel that Humans have a lot to teach us.”

  “Such as?” Gabrielle asked. She wasn’t teasing; she honestly wanted to know what these people, with their extraordinary abilities, could learn from her kind.

  “Humans are more ... direct? That’s not quite right.” Gabrielle could almost see Féolan trying on words and was reminded that Krylaise was not his first tongue. “They have an energy, a fierceness almost, in the way they live. Some endure such hardship, but they strive still for life, however brief. Maybe it’s a kind of courage.” He shrugged, defeated. “I guess I don’t really know. But I find I like to be around it.”

  Danaïs snorted, eyes still closed. “You can see his years of study have led to a deep understanding of Humankind.”

  But Gabrielle smiled at Féolan, her heart warmed by his words. “I see the courage you speak of in the people I treat. I met a woman once whose husband had died. She was working a farm and raising six children alone, and the youngest was so crippled he could not walk. And she was tireless in her care and protection of that child. She humbled me.”

  “Yes,” said Féolan.

  He held her gaze, and Gabrielle felt a sudden connection, a flow of understanding that went beyond words. Danaïs and the little garden faded away for a moment, as though she and Féolan spoke in some private place. Flustered, Gabrielle pulled her eyes back to the bergamot patch, staring at the tangled plants as though she planned to count each blossom.

  In the silence that followed, Féolan gave a dramatic sigh. She looked up and caught his amused grin.

  “What is it?” she asked, glad to lighten the mood.

  “That Poutin fellow. I fear we shall never be soul-brothers.”

  CHAPTER 5

  DESPITE Gabrielle’s feeling that her world had changed overnight, life continued much the same as ever. She was aware that meetings were being held, envoys sent, but for her there was the usual trickle of patients to care for, Danaïs’ leg to finish healing, FirstHarvest Feast to plan with her mother ... and medicines to prepare. This last she came close to forgetting. It was with a start she realized the hawkweed had come into bloom and the moon was
almost full.

  “You will have to do your exercises by yourself tomorrow,” she told Danaïs that afternoon. She had added stretching and strength work to his daily walks. She patted his head as though he were a small boy and put on a sugary sweet voice. “I’m sure you’ll do your very best.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Féolan here will come and glare at you sternly to make sure you don’t skimp.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Where are you going to be, ma’am, if I might ask?”

  “I need to gather some herbs, especially the hawkweed flowers, which are strongest when they first bloom. I was taught it’s best to gather on a waxing moon. I’m not really sure there’s any truth to it, but I like to honor the old traditions.”

  Danaïs dropped the humble patient pose. “Why don’t you take Féolan along? He’s a lazy sot, not much use really, but at least one of the horses would get exercised.”

  “Yes, of course.” It was nice of Danaïs to make the suggestion for her. “Féolan, if you’d like to, you’re most welcome. I’m going to ride into the upland pastures east of here.”

  IT WAS A PLEASANT RIDE, first through the southern tip of the town of Chênier, which sprawled in a rough semi-circle at the castle’s feet and crowded up against the Avine River’s eastern bank, and then east along a country track through open farmland. Gradually the orchards and ploughed fields gave way to rougher, hilly country, scrubby woodlots and livestock pasturage. Gabrielle turned off the track and headed up a farm lane.

  They met the farmer himself repairing a break in the fencing. Squinting up at them, he scrambled to his feet and managed an awkward bow.

  “Hello, Luc. How’s your family?”

  “Very well, I thank ye, m’Lady. Come for the hawkweed and that, have ye?”

  “Yes, if it’s still all right with you. Is it thick in that back pasture again this year?”

  “Whole field’s orange with ‘em. You’re more’n welcome.”

  Thanking the man, Gabrielle turned her horse and led Féolan past the farmhouse and through a series of fields, until they reached an untrimmed pasture snugged up against a strip of woodland. Sure enough, the hawkweed glowed orange and golden in the sun.