The Bonemender

by Holly Bennett

  Not, at least, until she heard voices up ahead. Gabrielle froze, her first dismayed thought that she had somehow circled around and blundered back to the Greffaire camp. Then she heard it again, not the harsh shouts of Greffaire soldiers but low, liquid voices speaking in a language like soft music. Her heart gave a lurch of recognition: they were Elves. They would help her. She had to catch up.

  She was nearly there, all but running up the path, when she was tackled from behind. She fell, hard. Strong arms pinned her; she felt the tip of a knife or sword blade in her side. “Please! I am a friend!” she cried, unknowingly echoing Féolan’s cry to the Verdeau guards. Then it seemed the thread of will that had brought her this far snapped; she fell silent and lay still. So be it, she thought. Better, at least, to die here under the trees than in that wretched camp. But her assailant was turning her over. Startled luminous eyes gazed at her, then widened in confusion. He sat her up, brushed her off, helped her to her feet, a stream of Elvish washing over her the while. Finally, standing unsteadily, Gabrielle realized he was asking a question.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and her voice came out so shaky she had to swallow and start over. “I’m sorry. I don’t speak Elvish.”

  THREE ELVES CAME slowly up the trail to the rendezvous point. One had taken a bad slash above the knee, and the other two supported him on either side. Féolan was well satisfied; as far as he could tell there had been no Elves lost and only one injury worse than this leg wound. They would do a more careful count once they were deeper into the woods.

  The wounded man leaned heavily on Féolan as they worked their way up a steep rise in the path. The trail leveled out, then twisted sharply before plunging into the deep woods: the first sentry point. One sentry stood in place; as they passed, Féolan noticed the other was questioning a Gref Orisé prisoner. He shook his head in irritation; there had been no talk of taking prisoners and for good reason: What were they to do with this fellow now?

  He caught a snatch of the prisoner’s reply: “I’m sorry. I don’t speak Elvish.” Féolan’s breath stopped in his chest. He spun around, his injured companion forgotten.

  “Gabrielle?”

  “GABRIELLE?” said a voice, and it was the voice she had dreamt of so often, so often that she supposed she must be dreaming yet again. It was a good dream, though, and she raised her head, focused her tired eyes and found him.

  “Féolan.” She took two stumbling steps toward him, and her knees buckled. He was there, swift as a cat, catching her up in his arms and holding her tight against him. Gabrielle buried her head in his shoulder and let his strength and love flow into her. They did not move or speak for a long time.

  Finally she stirred. Féolan lifted her chin. Strings of hair, stiff with dirt and blood, hung before her eyes, and he tucked these back as tenderly as a mother so he could look full upon her. “Gabrielle,” he said wonderingly. “How is it you are here?”

  Gabrielle’s face crumpled with pain. “My father is dead.” The tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks. “I couldn’t save him.” She laid her face against his chest and sobbed.

  CHAPTER 24

  WHEN Gabrielle awoke she was being carried like an overgrown child through a forest tinged gray with first light. She lifted her head, disoriented, and then smiled with pleasure as a familiar voice greeted her.

  “Awake at last, sleepyhead?” asked Danaïs. “A good thing. You’ve been putting on weight through the night, I think.”

  “Danaïs!”

  He put her down gently, steadying her with both hands. “Hello, beautiful healer.”

  “Not so beautiful now,” she pointed out.

  “You smell very bad, as well,” he agreed. “Still, it was my greatest pleasure to carry you these many miles. I had to wrestle you away from my friend Féolan. He planned to lug you along until his arms fell from their sockets.” His face became serious, the brown eyes tender. “You have traveled a hard path, I think, since we last met.”

  “Don’t make me cry again.” Too late. The tears gusted through her like a storm, and Danaïs just held her while a stream of Elves passed them by. At last Gabrielle caught her breath and wiped at her eyes. Her shoulder was wet. She looked up and saw that Danaïs too had been weeping.

  “I am so sorry, Gabrielle. Féolan and I both had great respect for your father. We will grieve for his family and his people.”

  Danaïs spoke to a nearby Elf, who nodded and headed quickly up the path. “Féolan would not let go of you until I promised to alert him if you woke,” he said. “Can you walk for a while? It is a long hike still back to Stonewater.”

  That dawn walk through the woods might have been prescribed by a very wise healer expressly to revive Gabrielle’s strong spirit. Féolan and Danaïs paced protectively on either side of her. They talked little but gave much: Safety. Love. Understanding. She walked in silence as the forest woke up around her. Birds peeped and twittered, then burst into song. The dark tree trunks became backlit in a rosy glow. The first spring leaves, that sweet pale green seen only in spring, gave the air a golden haze. As she walked, the peaceful, quiet beauty seemed to soak directly into her heart.

  BY NOON THE other Elves were far ahead. The three made a little fire and ate the travel biscuits and dried apples Féolan and Danaïs had stashed in their packs. Gabrielle sat nestled against Féolan, gazing into the flames. Sometimes Féolan hummed quietly, and it seemed almost as though his voice were coming from inside her own head. The forest was drowsy and dappled under the mid-day sun, and the fire made an intimate, private circle of the three friends. The time had come to talk.

  It began with a simple question: “What happened to your hair?” Gabrielle asked. Féolan’s hair was still raggedly cut, though grown to about chin length.

  “Oh, this is what’s left of my Gref Orisé disguise,” he began, and so unfolded the story of his journey over the mountains. Gabrielle’s face clouded as he described the Gref Orisé way of life. That’s what Derkh must return to, she thought, wondering what kind of life awaited him.

  “And that’s how I was nearly shot by the Verdeau army after all my adventures,” he concluded. “But when I got your note I was stunned. Were you there at the pass the whole time?”

  So then it was Gabrielle’s turn, and when she came to Jerome’s death there was more weeping, but there was comfort too, now that she was not alone.

  “I was so sure I was meant to save him,” she confessed, her eyes dark and lost. “So sure. I decided in my pride that I could heal him. I should have got him off the field sooner and kept him alive.”

  The two Elves exchanged glances. Here was a hurt that time alone would not heal.

  “Gabrielle,” began Féolan gently. “Surely you do not blame yourself for your father’s death.”

  “I made a wrong judgement, Féolan,” she insisted. “I would not have him crippled, so now he is dead.”

  “And if you had not been there, would he be alive now?”

  “That’s not the point,” she said. “I was there.”

  “All right, then,” Féolan persisted. “And how would you have taken him to safety?”

  Gabrielle flinched away from his questions, a tight, defensive shrug her only answer. Féolan looked to Danaïs: help me. It was unbearable to hurt her like this. Yet to let such self-blame go unchallenged, surely that hurt was the greater?

  Danaïs took up the burden. “Gabrielle, listen. There was no way to take Jerome back. He would have had to be thrown over a horse and carried at a gallop for miles until they caught up with the carts. With a broken back, how could that not kill him?

  “You gave him a gift. Not the gift you wanted to give him, not life, but at least he did not die suffering and broken. He died without fear or pain, with his daughter walking beside him. That is a great mercy. You saw that hellish field. You know I speak truth.”

  Gabrielle was weeping again, silently, hands over her face and shoulders shaking. Féolan sat by, his own eyes red with misery. Danaï
s glared at him, gestured insistently. Idiot. Go to her. Gingerly, fearing her wounded refusal, Féolan reached out and pulled her to him. She didn’t refuse. She crawled into his arms, and Féolan sensed some relief in her, but she did not speak of her father again.

  AS THEY RESUMED their journey, Danaïs left them to run ahead. “We will have a bath and some decent food waiting for you,” he promised. “And I beg you to choose the bath first.”

  “I’m sorry I’m so slow,” Gabrielle said to Féolan. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel like an old lady.” Instantly she regretted her words; neither of them wanted to raise that issue now.

  But Féolan smoothed it over. “You’re tired, Gabi. Body and soul. Anyone would be, after such an ordeal.” He took her hand and laced his fingers through hers, and they walked so along the narrow trail.

  The sun was slanting in from the west when Féolan announced they were nearly there. For the first time it struck Gabrielle that she was about to enter an Elvish settlement. She stopped.

  “What is it?” asked Féolan. He could feel her sudden anxiety.

  “Oh, Féolan, I—” She tried again. “I guess I’m shy. I’m probably the first Human to visit your home in, what? A hundred years? More? And look at me ... “ She laughed, without humor. “Col said I was a bloody mess, and he was exactly right.”

  “You won’t be for long,” Féolan promised.

  GABRIELLE’S FIRST SIGHT of Stonewater enchanted her. The dwellings, simple well-proportioned wood structures open to the air and light, were not lined up in rows but rather placed helterskelter, in harmony with the contours of the land. They seemed almost to have grown out of the earth. The trees had been thinned, but artfully, turning the forest into pleasant parkland. Winding pathways connected the dwellings, and she caught a glimpse of a larger structure that might be a meeting hall or royal lodge. Though she knew the settlement was well protected, she saw no guards or sentries. And yes, there was a rushing stream that leaped through the settlement from one rocky level to another, full of vigor from the mountains where it was born.

  In truth, she paid close attention to her surroundings to avoid looking at the people. The Elves they passed kept a discrete silence, but Gabrielle was painfully aware of their polite curiosity.

  Féolan led her to a building that was more closed in than the others, with only small windows, high near the roof. Danaïs was waiting outside the door, grinning his welcome. By his side stood a tall woman, golden-haired like him, and skipping about them like a butterfly was a beautiful girl-child, maybe eight years old. She stopped as soon as she saw Gabrielle and skittered over to her parents, staring with solemn hazel eyes.

  Danaïs met her with a formal Human bow, and the foolishness of it made Gabrielle laugh in spite of her nervousness. Immediately the atmosphere lightened. “Gabrielle, meet my Lady, Celani, and my daughter, Eleara.” Gabrielle’s hands, at least, were clean. She made the gesture she had been taught, palm to breast and then outstretched. Celani met her hand with a welcoming smile. Eleara managed a quick smile also, then hid behind Danaïs’ legs. Danaïs translated for both: “Celani bids you welcome and apologizes for not speaking your tongue. She asks if you would like to come into the bathhouse with her. Eleara, I’m afraid, is not yet completely convinced you are not a monster from her dreams.”

  “I can hardly blame her,” said Gabrielle. She looked at Celani and said one of the two Elvish words she had learned on the trail with Féolan, “Thank you.” Celani opened the door, and the two women disappeared into a delicious cloud of steam.

  The bathhouse was warm and clean and smelled of cedar. The sheer luxury of sinking into the waiting tub of hot water made Gabrielle’s throat choke up alarmingly. Gods, you cry about everything these days, she scolded herself. She would not cry over a bath. Instead, she held her breath and slid right down under the water, soaking her grimy hair. When she emerged, Celani was waiting with soap and a soft cloth. The scent was fresh as a pine wood, and Gabrielle scrubbed every inch of herself from toes to scalp and down to the ends of her hair. Then under the water again to rinse.

  As days of mud and sweat and blood sloughed off, the water darkened to rusty brown around her. She looked at it in dismay. She had wanted a second soaping and a long soak but not in this cesspool. Jumping up, she grabbed for the towel Celani had left and wrapped it around her. Celani came in with an armful of clothing and looked at Gabrielle in surprise. Then she saw the bath, and her blue eyes went round. With a quick smile, she held out her hand, as though to a child, and led Gabrielle across a little hallway to another closetlike room where—praises to the Mother—a second bath lay ready. Gabrielle slid into it with a groan of pleasure. She thought she might stay there forever.

  FOR THE SECOND TIME Gabrielle was wearing someone else’s clothing, but these were the lightest, softest garments she had ever touched. As she stepped through the bathhouse door, she felt like a new, damp butterfly, just emerged from its chrysalis and dressed in unfamiliar wings.

  Féolan stopped mid-sentence and stared as Gabrielle appeared.

  “Is something wrong?” She glanced down at her new outfit. It fit her well, she thought, though too long in the sleeve and leg. She loved the muted gray-green of the overmantle. But Féolan had the oddest look on his face. “Féolan? Does it look so ill?”

  He shook his head slowly, almost dreamily, and stood and walked over to her.

  “Nay, Gabrielle, forgive me. You look—” he seemed to stop himself, and his eyes lingered over her once more, from the delicate sandals to the tiny braids holding back her hair, before coming to rest on her face. “You look beautiful.” But Gabrielle thought there was something forced about his smile. As their eyes met, she felt again that strange sensation of connection, as though an invisible door had opened between them. She felt what Féolan had not spoken: his bright love—and the sadness shadowing its edges.

  They ate with Danaïs’ family—food that was lighter and more subtle than Gabrielle was used to, and utterly satisfying. Eleara had lost her shyness and in the absence of language made friends by bringing Gabrielle little offerings: a clip for her hair, a cold fruit-berry drink, a tiny tame flying squirrel that peeked out of Eleara’s pocket and accepted a nut from Gabrielle’s fingers. Danaïs and Féolan translated the stream of Elvish conversation, but Gabrielle was first so hungry, and then so drowsy, that she could pay little attention. The talk flowed over her like soothing music.

  It was barely dark when Féolan noticed that Gabrielle was falling asleep where she sat. He led her to a tiny guesthouse. The wide window shutters had been dropped against the chill spring night, and a small stove warmed the room. Nightwear had been laid out on the bed for her, an extra set of clothes draped over the rail and a basin of water and a comb stood ready for the morning.

  A lantern, which Féolan lit, stood on a small table. At the doorway he turned, took Gabrielle in his arms and kissed her. Ignoring the warning in her brain, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back. For good or for ill, she could deny her heart no longer. A whispered good night, in Krylaise and in Elvish, and he was gone.

  Sinking into the soft warmth of her bed—a real bed!—she was barely able to blow out the light before sleep claimed her.

  CHAPTER 25

  THE sun was high in the sky when Gabrielle stepped uncertainly out of her little cottage, wondering what to do next. She felt worlds better, almost her old self, better enough to feel curious about her new surroundings. The war against the Greffaires and its burden of death seemed far away.

  Eleara waited for her outside, ready to be her guide. Slipping her small hand into Gabrielle’s, she led her along the winding pathways to an open-air shelter where many Elves were gathered. It was Gabrielle’s first clear sight of a group of Elves, and they were a marvel to her—so many fair, smooth faces, sparkling eyes, graceful gestures. She could think of only one Human comparison: a troupe of dancers she had seen in Blanchette, reportedly from the Tarzine lands across the G
ray Sea. The women and men alike had moved with the sinewy grace of cats, heads held proudly on necks that seemed longer and straighter than any in the audience.

  As they drew near, Gabrielle saw that a meal was laid out—late breakfast? Early luncheon? Whatever it was, she was famished again. Eleara led her to the buffet and waited while Gabrielle filled her plate. Today she felt more confident, her royal training returning to her, and she met the eyes of the Elves she encountered, murmuring greetings and thank-yous, smiling and shaking her head when they tried to converse further, Eleara jumping in to explain her muteness. She followed Eleara to a table where Danaïs, Celani and Féolan were just finishing their meal, aware of the surprised eyes that followed her progress.

  “I guess we don’t have to ask if you slept well,” teased Danaïs. Féolan reached up and twined his fingers in the hair that spilled down her back, gently pulling her onto the seat beside him. Then he leaned over and kissed her cheek. Gabrielle was dismayed to feel herself blushing—like a fifteen-year-old caught smooching in a hayrick—and did her best to pretend it hadn’t happened. “I must confess I can remember nothing of the night, not even dreams.”

  “So you call this night,” mused Féolan. “Note, Danaïs, the odd ideas these Humans have.”

  Gabrielle grinned. So easy and pleasant it was to fall into their old bantering. “Thank-you, gentlemen, I do feel the better for it.”

  “You smell the better too, I must say,” said Danaïs. “Doesn’t she, Eleara?”

  Eleara spoke to her father in Elvish, her manner serious. Danaïs sighed. “Eleara reproves me, Gabrielle. She knows I am teasing even without knowing the words and says it is unkind to make such remarks.”