The Bonemender

by Holly Bennett

  Gabrielle opened her eyes to find Justine, huge in her white nightgown, standing by her bed. She sat up, groped for a lamp and lit it.

  “What is it, Justine? Is the baby coming?”

  “I’ve only just started having pains. They aren’t bad yet. But, Gabrielle, the baby’s not right anymore. Look!”

  “Let’s get a bit more light first. Here, sit down.” Gabrielle eased Justine down on her bed, then moved around the room lighting as many lamps as she could find. She brought them all over to her bedside table, then asked Justine to lie down. Even by flickering lamplight, she could tell at a glance that the baby had somehow got himself sideways. Justine looked like she had a watermelon wedged across her stomach. It was a comical sight, but Gabrielle knew this was no joke. A baby could be born bottom first, at need, but there was no way he could get out like that.

  “Oh, you silly baby, what have you done,” she murmured, trying to loosen the grip of Justine’s fear. Justine was hovering on the edge of panic, but she gave a breathy little laugh.

  “How on earth did he get like that? He seemed fine when I went to bed.”

  “I can’t imagine.” Gabrielle noticed that Justine was calling the baby “he.” Her mother’s intuition was right on two counts, then. “Maybe you’re going to give birth to a contortionist rather than a prince or princess.” She ran her hands slowly over the awkward lump, calming Justine and figuring out what part of the baby was where. Her mind was racing. She would have to act fast. As Justine’s labor progressed—and it was likely to progress quickly with a third baby—her womb would tighten up until the baby was bound in that position, immovable. Even as she thought this, she felt Justine’s belly ripple and tighten under her hand. Just a short contraction but a clear warning.

  She would have to move the baby. She knew the risks: if the birth cord was pinched, the baby could be harmed. If it was pulled away from the wall of the womb, it could cause bleeding that would endanger both Justine’s and the baby’s lives. But if Gabrielle could shift him back into place safely—and she did have an advantage over ordinary midwives on that count—then once labor was well underway, he would stay put.

  She explained the situation to Justine. Justine looked pale in the dark room, her eyes wide and frightened. But she nodded at Gabrielle’s proposal. “That’s why I came to you.”

  “Let’s go get Dominic,” suggested Gabrielle. “I’ll have to pay total attention to what I’m doing, and I want someone here to keep you company.”

  As they walked together up the hall to Justine and Dominic’s chamber, Gabrielle prayed she would not end up doing more harm than good.

  CHAPTER 11

  GREF ORIS was deep in winter’s clutches before Féolan was ready to make his move. After six weeks spent lurking on the edges of Human settlements, sleeping rough in the bitter cold and eating little, Féolan was starting to look the half-starved peasant he was hoping to pass for. A chronic cough now roughened his voice, and the hair he had hacked short with his knife was a shaggy, unkempt mass that hung over his eyes and ears.

  He had planned to live in the woods unnoticed, as he often had in the Basin, making only brief forays into villages and towns as he learned the ways and speech of the Gref Orisé. But once out of the foothills, the land on the other side of the mountains was mostly rolling, wind-swept plain, dusted now with snow and broken only with small patches of scrubby woodland. Even for an Elf, staying hidden in this land was near impossible. And he soon learned that here, no one would dare welcome or shelter a stranger.

  It was an appalling country. Féolan had never before conceived of a place where oppression was the common condition of life, but in Gref Oris nearly everyone, it seemed, walked in fear. Only soldiers and the richest nobles traveled and spoke freely. Everyone else labored under the emperor’s fist. The roads were full of checkpoints, manned by soldiers who demanded travelers’ “papers” and explanations as to their business. All but the smallest villages were walled and gated, all who entered or left questioned. Always the questions were answered with bowed heads and cringing voices.

  Because he could not risk the roads, Féolan’s progress was slow. Still, he kept the roads in sight for he had no other means of finding any habitation. Each foray Féolan made to a market or town square started with a perilous midnight climb over the quietest stretch of the wall. It was long before he found a checkpoint with enough cover that he could sneak close and observe. There he had seen a young man pulled off the road, beaten and sent back the way he came, seemingly for setting off to see a girl without his master’s permission. He had seen an entire family arrested and dragged off in chains, for what crime, he could not say.

  That day, he had almost decided to turn around and take his chances crossing back over the winter mountains. He could do nothing here. His original plan—to volunteer for the army as a means of learning something of the Gref Orisé battle plan—was impossible without identity papers. He knew now the army was mustering at a camp just north of the foothills, had overheard both individual men and uniformed units give it as their destination to the sentries. But he would learn nothing more, unless he could be a ranked soldier in a regular regiment. He could waylay some civilian traveler and rob him of his papers, but he had no stomach for treachery. He would just try to get home and report to his Council that invasion was, indeed, on its way.

  Fate intervened in the form of a corpse. Féolan was heading back to the little hollow in a strip of trees where he was camped, a task that demanded three hours of crawling, sometimes on hands and knees, sometimes right down on his belly, across stubbly grainfields and pastureland. He was within sprinting distance of the little wood when he noticed the crows circling and squabbling a few hundred yards away. He watched, motionless in the snow. When a couple of vultures sailed in to investigate, he was certain: something dead was lying at the edge of the field.

  Even then, he wasn’t expecting a man. He was thinking rather that if it was a decent-sized animal and seemed reasonably fresh, he might risk making a fire and eating it. The few Gref Orisé coins he had found in the pockets of his “borrowed” clothes had not been enough to buy more than a threadbare woolen coat and a meager supply of the cheapest food, certainly not meat. He was always hungry now.

  The man was heavily built, well but not richly dressed. He lay pitched face-first in the snow, frostbite obvious on the exposed skin. The crows had begun their work, Féolan noticed with distaste, but there were no signs that the man had died violently. Hoofprints all around made it clear that he had arrived on a small horse or mule, though it had left without him. Rich enough to ride, then.

  Féolan scanned his surroundings as he considered this windfall. It was risky. If the man was important enough to be known, an imposter would be recognized and caught. But if he was, as Féolan hoped, a middle-ranking, unremarkable person—say a successful farmer or tradesman—that could be the identity he needed. Quickly, he checked the man’s pockets. The coat yielded only a pair of stiff leather gloves. Féolan dragged the man over onto his back and opened the coat. There was a pocket in the front of the man’s tunic, and a small pouch strung on a rope around his middle. The pouch contained a generous handful of coins. The pocket contained a square of heavy parchment—identity papers.

  Féolan did not risk checking the papers there. He lifted the corpse under its arms and hauled it into the woods. He returned with an evergreen branch and, following the hoofprints out about a hundred boot-lengths, swept the snowy tracks away as well as he could. A good wind would finish the job.

  That night, Féolan traveled by darkness as far from the dead man as he could get. He was headed south, back toward the mountains, not to escape, but to join the muster. He wasn’t sure yet exactly where it was, but once he got close, the flow of traffic would lead him there. He wore the clothes and papers of a blacksmith named Brakar. Like many of his people, Féolan had some knowledge of metalwork. He knew how to make arrowheads, knife blades and jewelry. He hoped it would be enough
.

  THE BABY DIDN’T want to turn. Gabrielle had mapped out his position and followed the line of the birth cord in her mind. To her relief, everything looked all right for a safe repositioning. Deeply focused on the baby, she waited until Justine’s belly relaxed after a contraction, and then slowly but firmly pressed down on the baby’s head with one hand and up at the bottom end with the other. She kept up the pressure until Justine gasped, but the baby didn’t budge. Were the walls of the womb already too tight?

  Gabrielle reached up and squeezed Justine’s shoulder. She had made her sister-in-law as comfortable as she could on the big feather bed, tucking pillows under her knees and arms and encouraging Dominic to climb right up beside her. Still, she could feel Justine’s tension.

  “I’m sorry, Justine; it didn’t work that time.” Justine’s eyes welled up.

  Dominic’s mouth tightened with fear.

  “Don’t lose heart,” Gabrielle urged. “This is only our first try. I just wonder if ... Justine, do you think you could get up on your knees? On the floor maybe, leaning over the side of the bed. I want to get the baby away from your backbone, make as much room as possible. See if we can use the pull of the earth to help us.”

  “Where will you be?” asked Justine.

  “Ah ... I’m not sure. Let’s see if we can figure it out.”

  Minutes later, Justine was draped over the bed, and Gabrielle was wedged beneath her on the carpeted floor, her head in the dust balls. If this works, she thought, we’ll have something to laugh over later. Leaving her fear and her awkward position behind, she closed her eyes, placed her hands on Justine’s belly and let the world fade away. This time she tried to make contact with the baby. The words were in her head, but what she hoped to send were feelings and pictures: comfort, love and the image of a head-down baby all ready to be born. Hello, sweetheart. It’s me again. You’re going to meet your momma soon. You know your momma. She loves you. But first you have to wiggle down. Feel how heavy your head is, it’s soooo heavy it’s going to sink way down so your feet can float up. Are you ready? Now dooown goes that head! She pushed. The head slid downward, slowly, so slowly. Gabrielle did not hurry, just kept the pressure steady and sent the baby warmth and love. Vaguely, far away, she heard Justine making little excited sounds as she realized the baby was moving. Listen, baby. You’re making your momma happy. Everything will be fine now.

  Sylvain DesChênes was born at sunrise and was as healthy as Gabrielle had predicted. He was pronounced “cute” by his older sister, “squishy-looking” by his older brother and “perfect” by his grandmother. His mother didn’t call him anything. She just held him close, barely letting go long enough to break her fast. Dominic, who had never flown his feelings in the breeze like Tristan, surprised Gabrielle by wrapping her in a fierce hug in the privacy of the hallway. “Thank-you. Thank-you. Gods above, Gabrielle, I can’t bear to think what would have happened without you.”

  CHAPTER 12

  “YOU’RE scrawny for a smith.”

  That was an understatement. Though taller than most Humans and broad-shouldered, Féolan had been slight for a smith to start with. After weeks of short rations, he was scrawny, period. But he had expected the comment, and now, having been directed by a checkpoint guard to a huge garrison sprawled just a half-day’s march from the mouth of the Skyway Pass, he prepared to brazen it out.

  Féolan nodded and gave the sneering officer what he hoped was an embarrassed grin. “Th-th-that’s what my f-f-father do say,” he blurted out. He had affected a stutter to give him an excuse for speaking little. Already he was mightily tired of it, but it did seem to distract people from his accent. “H-h-he thought I’d n-n-n-e’er make a, a sm-m-mith.”

  Open laughter from the men nearby greeted this pronouncement. Féolan ducked his head, as though shamed. What kind of people laugh at a stranger’s affliction? he thought.

  The recruiting officer was unimpressed. “Think you can fight then, do you?” he demanded.

  “Aye, sir. I-I-I’m strong, and f-f-f-fast.” Féolan hoped this was still true. He’d eaten well the past two days, thanks to Brakar’s coins, but he was hardly in fighting form.

  “Here then!” A battle-ax flew toward him. Startled, he threw his arm up and caught it. Instantly the officer was upon him, swinging his own ax down toward Féolan’s head. Féolan parried, awkward but fast as promised. A good thing. The force of the blow was vicious. It seemed that in Gref Oris the way to fail as a prospective army recruit was to be killed.

  They fought a few minutes longer, Féolan parrying and blocking but careful not to attack his would-be superior officer. The battle-ax was a lucky choice, he decided. It was an unfamiliar weapon for him, so he seemed what he claimed to be, an able but untrained fighter.

  “You’ll do.” The officer shoved his ax in a barrel behind him and motioned Féolan to do the same. “Go with Garran, here. He’ll get you outfitted and barracked. Dismissed.”

  Féolan wondered if he should give some sign of fealty, but the officer had already turned his back, and Garran was striding off across the crowded yard.

  DAYS PASSED BEFORE Féolan felt secure enough to sleep soundly. He had to be on his guard at all times: to hide his skill with a sword; to stay in one piece during battle-ax sparring; to avoid lapsing into Elvish gestures or Basin Krylaise; to copy the Gref Orisé manner of eating, polishing weaponry and addressing superiors. At night, he remained on guard against those who had no qualms about robbing the new man while he slept. These attempts soon died down, however, as word got out that the skinny new recruit slept but lightly and was devilish quick with his knife.

  The stutter turned out to be more hindrance than help. The soldiers of Gref Oris were a taciturn bunch; no excuse was required for keeping silent or to oneself. It was a grim, cheerless place, and as he lay on his pile of dirty straw at night, listening to the rustles and snores around him, he longed as never before for his own home and friends. In the quietest hours, the image of Gabrielle would come to his mind, and somehow her memory brought comfort along with the sorrow.

  When not training, he was sometimes put to repairing weaponry and armor, and he had feared at first that this would be his downfall, for he knew nothing of making armor. Neither, it turned out, did any other civilian blacksmith. Armory was the military’s domain, as were swords and axes, and the Chief Smith would not let him touch a piece of equipment until he had been shown exactly what was expected. He was in far greater danger with the tack for the horses and had almost given himself away the first time he had been asked to replace a stirrup.

  Féolan observed carefully and worked with diligence. Though the labor was brutally hot and heavy, it was the one place where he had a chance of overhearing important news. The enlisted men he trained and bunked with were either too stolid or too frightened to ask questions; in any case, he heard none of the speculation and rumors that he had expected about the upcoming invasion. Even when the men gambled in the evening, pulling out their tin flasks of corn liquor, their tongues rarely loosened. The smithy, though, was a kind of crossroads, where men in charge of weapons, armor, horses and supplies met and where officers were custom-fitted. That made, on occasion, for some interesting talk—already he had heard a horse-master speculate that “we’ll be lucky to get even a few over that pass”—so Féolan set himself to become the Chief Smith’s first choice when help was required.

  And so he did. The man, himself massive in the arms and shoulders, had been unimpressed with Féolan’s weight, but the precision of his work was another matter. Féolan took easily to the fussy business of molding the armor pieces to the curve of a man’s body and could quickly and neatly replace the fine link chain and buckled leather strapping that held the various plates together.

  He was soon noticed in the training field, as well. It was risky to show his skill too early, but Féolan had soon realized that he had little hope of discovering anything at the lowest rank, so he allowed his swordsmanship to “progress” beyo
nd his fellow recruits. Yet every advance increased the danger of lapsing into a move that was Elvish, rather than Gref Orisé, and betraying himself.

  So Féolan’s heart thudded with alarm when, three weeks after his arrival and after neatly besting his partner in the ring, a loud voice thundered, “You! Brakar.” Turning slowly, head in the required bow, Féolan thought desperately of escape.

  “Sir?”

  A burly officer faced him.

  “Follow me.”

  They marched through the camp, Féolan wondering at every step if he hurried to his own death. Ten minutes later, they entered the armory.

  “Another to be outfitted,” his brusque guide announced and strode out the door.

  “Step forward, soldier.” This from the impatient armory clerk. Féolan stepped forward. The clerk recognized Féolan from the smithy and brightened slightly. “Been awarded a suit, eh? Good on you!”

  Well, it was an opening and openings were, as they said here, rare as good fortune. He took his chances.

  “D-d-don’t everyw-w-one gets one?”

  The clerk snorted. “Not hardly. Ain’t got suits for the whole world, have we? Bloody expensive, they are. Suits goes to the good fighters, the ones to keep alive. The other enlisted men get helmets and whatever bits an’ pieces are left over. The conscripts—oh, not many here yet, but there be throngs afore long—they get nothin’.”

  Blessed starshine, the man’s a talker, Féolan thought. “N-n-n-o weapons, ev-v-ven?” he ventured.

  “Spread out so I can measure ya. Oh, they’ll get weapons of a sort, when they head into the field. Not before.”

  “W-w-w-on’t be good f-f-fight-fighters, then,” observed Féolan, obediently stretching out his arms and legs.

  “Nor do they have to be.” The clerk flashed him a wolfish grin. “Be glad you signed up. Your job’s to fight. The conscripts’ job is just to get in the enemy’s way. After the enemy kills a couple thousand, he’s plumb wore out, isn’t he? Might turned to shite.” He sniggered at his own joke. “Then our armored warriors come at them.”