Dead Bones

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Dead Bones Page 36

by L. J. Hayward


  Gabe swallowed his initial anger. It was clear impassioned argument was not the way to converse with du Serres. The man was just like Meraz—calm in the face of adversity and completely unsympathetic toward fools.

  “My loyalty?” he asked. “I don’t see what’s so important about it compared to everyone else’s. You might think because I’m de Roque I don’t care about these de Ibarras. I do. Your lieutenant just killed a man I’ve saved twice. Palo de Torres. He had a family in Torres waiting for him to come home a citizen with a Name they could be proud of. To me, he’s not de Ibarra. He’s just a man, a boy killed in cold blood. My loyalty is to him. You won’t get me to betray my fellow Delaluzians.”

  “I’m not asking you to betray anyone. All I want is help finding Prince Ramiero.” He paused, then added, “I just happen to think if you detest my methods so much your loyalty to your fellow Delaluzians might inspire you to find an alternative.”

  Trying not to feel the guilt du Serres clearly wanted him to suffer, Gabe looked away. The general was right. Gabe had sat in his hut, had slept, while every two hours, another Delaluzian lost their life. It was Lieutenant Pena all over again. He could have saved her the lashing if he’d tried to work through his pain to put the other mages to sleep. He could have saved Dina the trauma of being led away from her friends and into something completely unknown. He was a selfish coward and they had suffered for it. But the guilt for those lives was not his.

  Then why did he feel so guilty?

  “I’ll suspend the executions for four hours,” du Serres said. “Perhaps the silence will allow you to think.”

  Any chance he’d had of convincing himself the deaths weren’t his responsibility was shattered.

  “Is that all?” Gabe pushed his chair back.

  “For now. You will be brought back here in four hours. I hope you have a solution to our little problem by then.”

  Flanked by his guards, Gabe left the command tent. Palo had been taken down from the pole and two Valleymen were lifting the limp body onto a stretcher. They hefted their burden with little effort and trotted away. Instead of heading for the main gates, the two natives carried Palo toward the far side of the camp.

  “Where are they taking him?” he asked his guards.

  The younger of the pair said, “We can’t burn them in this weather, so the bodies are being stored in a hut until we can light a fire.”

  “Don’t tell him that,” the other snapped. “He’s a Bone Mage.”

  “So?” The younger man gave Gabe a good shove in the direction of his hut. “It’s not like he can bring them back from the dead.”

  Gabe’s lips twisted as he thought of Evellia.

  Thankfully Pio and Botello weren’t arguing when Gabe returned. They sat in sullen silence, alternatively glaring at each other, then looking away. Ismael was curled up by the wall. Gabe went to him.

  “How are you doing?” he asked, concerned by the Dean’s silence.

  “They wouldn’t let me go to them,” he said.

  “Who? Go to who?”

  “The guards. I wanted to say the final blessing for the people killed on the pole.”

  Gabe winced. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

  “It’s not a matter of want, Mage Castillo.” Ismael looked at his hands. He held the black pouch, his fingers moving constantly over the small bulge inside. “It’s about what’s right. What’s necessary. Those men died as soldiers, they need Saint Ciro’s blessing so they may go to the Shadows in peace.”

  The Dean’s words settled uneasily on Gabe. It’s not a matter of want. It’s about what’s right. What was right in this saints-damned situation? He shouldn’t be the one responsible for the Delaluzian lives in this camp. He was just a Bone Mage. A de Roque so unfortunate and stupid as to find himself here. He wanted to be at home, taking over from Master Mage Carrasco, teasing Sol about what a clumsy father he’ll be, avoiding his parents. He wanted to drink Sergio under the table and have Abbess Orellana give him a deeply disapproving frown the next day at sermon.

  But Ismael was right. What he wanted didn’t matter anymore. It most likely never had. He was a Bone Mage, a damn fine one, yet the most he’d planned on doing with his life was running the Roque City hospital and having fun with his friends. Without Evellia, he couldn’t imagine a wife, children, a life of his own. It was easier, less painful, to sit back and watch other lives.

  Then there were the things Palo de Torres had wanted. But now Palo would never have the chance to get them.

  Gabe patted Ismael’s arm. “I’ll talk to the general when I see him next. He might allow you to give the dead the final blessing.”

  Botello snorted. “What makes you think you have any sort of influence with the general?”

  “I don’t,” Gabe said wearily. “I don’t think anyone has any influence over that man, but he is... reasonable.”

  “Reasonable?” Pio demanded. “The man is murdering our people. The last time I went to sermon, I’m pretty sure murder wasn’t on any saint’s list of virtues.”

  “Yes, Pio, I know what he’s doing.”

  And it was working very well. They were at each other’s throats. Tense, angry and frightened that at any moment it could be them the Alarians tied to the pole. All of the responsibility for those feelings, for the arguments surely going on in other huts, was his.

  What if someone did know who Rafe was and was protecting him? What if Delaluzians were dying for no reason? Gabe snorted, sarcastic and scathing. As if any reason was worth dying for. Right now, Gabe couldn’t fathom any reason to protect Rafe. Prince or not, he was one person. How many had already died for him?

  The memory of Palo on the pole, defending Ibarra and Delaluz out of blind loyalty, was enough to bring a scream bubbling up his throat. Everything Gabe had worked so hard for these past months, killing himself by slow degrees to keep these people alive, was all pointless. He’d made the promise to himself no one would die if there was any chance he could save them. That shouldn’t change just because someone had blown up his hospital.

  He looked at Pio, really looked at him. Skinny, average height, usually jittering with excess energy when he wasn’t head down in a faulty engine or sleeping at all hours of the day. A first rate Engineer, perhaps more valuable to Tejon Company than many other people who outranked him. Right now, Pio was scowling at him, probably resenting all the times he’d given in to Gabe’s pleading for a lighter.

  “Do you know where Rafe is?” Gabe asked him.

  It was a question that hadn’t been asked in the hut since Victor had been killed. An unspoken agreement they wouldn’t give in to Alarian terrorism; a fear that if one of them knew they would all be held accountable for Victor’s death and the deaths of those who had followed.

  It was too late for blind denial now.

  Pio stared at him, then at Botello, as if he was in on the conspiracy to blame him for everything. Lastly, he looked to Ismael, Dean of the Church of Ciro, Tejon Company’s spiritual guide—the person they could turn to in times of personal crisis. Ismael couldn’t meet Pio’s gaze, turning his face toward the wall, the black pouch in his hand, fingers working over it desperately.

  “Why do you think I know?” Pio demanded of Gabe when he realised there was no support. “Why not Botello? He’s the one who’s been stealing supplies.”

  Botello growled, half rising, smoking hands reaching for Pio.

  Gabe grabbed Botello’s shoulder. “Leave it,” he snapped at the lieutenant, then turned to Pio. “I’m not accusing you. I just think we’re well and truly past the point where we can ignore what’s going on. I will ask Botello, and even Ismael, don’t worry. But Pio, I have to know. Do you have any idea where the boy may be?”

  “Why you?” Botello rounded on Gabe. “Who made you commander of this camp? You’re de Roque. No one here has to answer to you.”

  “There is no camp anymore, you idiot! There is only us and them. Your rank means less than dirt right now. The only p
erson in command is du Serres and the only thing that matters is finding that boy.”

  Botello’s fist came out of nowhere. Gabe’s head snapped to the side and his legs collapsed. Searing pain consumed his face.

  “Traitor!” Botello shouted. “You lying, fucking de Roque! I knew we should have locked you up the moment you arrived. Meraz should never have trusted you.”

  “Saint Ciro’s balls,” Pio swore. “You burned him.”

  Gabe rolled away from Botello. Pio stood between them, his slight frame no real deterrent to someone as large and bull-headed as Botello. His face was, apparently literally, on fire. Someone touched him and Gabe panicked, thrashing. Ismael dodged his flying fists and grabbed him again.

  “Settle, settle,” the Dean said, his calm demeanour back in place. “Lie still, let me have a look at your face.”

  Gabe couldn’t lie still. He couldn’t see, couldn’t think. The pain was worse than when Tonio had punched him. He wished he could black out, escape the pain, but there was no inviting darkness waiting for him, just bright, unrelenting pain. The image of Lieutenant Pena emerged from the blinding white, her head held high even though her back was cut to ribbons. Pain, Roulier had said, was the true punishment. Not the lashes themselves, but the lasting humility, the lingering hurt. Pain, spiritual and physical, remained in the memory, even when it was gone from the body. It affected everything you did after it was gone. Pain reminded you that you weren’t immortal.

  Roulier was right. Pain was punishment.

  Chapter 26

  Four hours later, Gabe was brought before General du Serres once more. He was groggy and delirious, opio swirling through his veins. The Alarian medics had overestimated the dose and Gabe was more than pleasantly detached from everything that hurt, including his own twisted thoughts. He knew that was a dangerous situation but, happily, didn’t really care.

  Du Serres studied the red, raw burns on the left side of his jaw with seeming indifference.

  “This lieutenant who did this to you,” he said as Gabe all but fell into the offered chair, “is he a Fire Mage?”

  “Nah. He’s got a touch of talent, that’s all.” Talking stretched the tight skin of his burn but the pain was distant, easily dismissed. “Could have taken an implant, I guess, but they probably knew he wasn’t smart enough to be a mage. Definitely not smart enough to be an Engineer.”

  But somehow smart enough to be skimming off the top of the supplies. Not that it would probably take a lot of thinking power, not if you had the right people under your thumb. And Botello’s thumbs were pretty big. He also wasn’t the only one in camp with a secret or two. Ismael had his little pouch and haunted eyes. Dina was harbouring some sort of unfounded affection for him. What he’d done to deserve that, he had no clue. And David! Luz, do not get him started down that convoluted path. Finally, Suelo. He’d not had much to do with the Earth Mage, but after their little jaunt into the earth he knew more about her than he did pretty much anyone else in Tejon Company. She had a child but wasn’t married, she was scared of her magic, she hovered just on the right side of obedience, a breath away from full blown resistance to her duty. And she’d done something she wasn’t proud of.

  “Mage Castillo!”

  Gabe shook himself, focusing on the general. Du Serres leaned over him, hand raised to slap. Through the fog of opio induced numbness, Gabe winced, remembering the pain of being hit.

  “He’s insensible,” du Serres snapped.

  “The medics gave him a large dose,” Carufel said

  “He’s useless to me until it wears off.”

  “The demonstrations, Mon General? Do we continue with them?”

  “No.”

  The general and lieutenant looked at Gabe. He looked back, slowly realising he’d been the one who had spoken.

  “No?” du Serres asked mildly.

  “No.” He hoped repeating it would remind him why he’d said it in the first place.

  “I hardly think that in your current state you came up with a solution to our little dilemma.”

  Gabe nodded. “I did.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Me.”

  Du Serres and Carufel exchanged curious looks.

  “Are you saying you know where the prince is?” the steely man asked.

  “No.” Gabe held up his black-gloved hand. “I’ll ask them if they know.”

  While Carufel looked on in confusion, du Serres stared at Gabe’s hand, then after a moment, nodded.

  The lieutenant asked, “Mon General? What does he mean?”

  “He means,” du Serres murmured, “that he’s going to betray Delaluz.”

  #

  They brought Dina to him. She was tired and wan, gaze fixed on the ground as she walked in between her guards. Something was missing from her, something vital. Gabe couldn’t help but think he had taken it away from her. Not the Alarians, not the war, but him. After months of silent devotion, she’d finally given in to his demands and spoken up and he hadn’t liked what he’d heard. Another betrayal. Just add it to the growing list.

  “The mage has suffered a burn,” du Serres said to Dina. “If you would be so kind as to do anything you can for him so he may return to full capacity.”

  Dina raised her head, worry and panic creasing her brow. A hand went to her mouth as she saw the angry burn on Gabe’s jaw. She went to her knees in front him, reaching for his face. Her fingers were gentle, turning him so she could see the wound properly. The touch was agonising, not because it hurt, but because she was so tender. He didn’t deserve this, didn’t deserve her. Pain was punishment.

  The opio was beginning to wear off. The pain was back, gripping his face harder than Dina ever would, spearing up through his eye, into his head, and down his neck. Thinking was hard but impossible to avoid.

  “It’s only superficial,” she announced, the steady countenance of an experienced Sacerdio settling around her. “The fact it hurts is very good.”

  “Can you heal him?” the general asked.

  Never taking her gaze off Gabe she said, “I can.”

  Gabe closed his eyes, unwilling to see her, to see the hurt he’d caused. Selfish to the end.

  “Do you need anything?”

  Dina stood, her hand still on Gabe’s unharmed cheek, soft and warm and caring. He wanted to pull away but couldn’t bring himself to. As much as it hurt he wanted this last moment of kindness before he ruined it all.

  “Somewhere quiet and private,” Dina said firmly.

  “Of course. You may use my personal tent. No one will disturb you there.”

  They were hustled out of the command tent and taken to the general’s. It was larger than the hut and well but sparsely furnished. Taking him from the support of his guards, Dina helped Gabe to the bed and settled him down. It wasn’t a big bed, not much more than those they had in the hospital, but it was softer than the ground, clean and comforting.

  “Gabriel,” Dina whispered when they were alone. “Why do you do these things to yourself?”

  “Because I deserve it.” Talking hurt, as did the concern in her eyes, but it was no less than he warranted.

  “No. You don’t deserve this.” She turned away but not before he saw the tears in her eyes. “Not you.”

  It was too much. Gabe reached for her arm, touched her soft skin, marvelling at how smooth it was, how perfect she was when everything around them was broken and bleeding. The soft touch of her hand against his face, like baby’s skin, flawless. Yet she worked just as hard as any of them—hauling stretchers when needed, packing crates of supplies, washing dirty bandages in scalding water with harsh soap that left everyone else’s hands red and abraded. When the hot wind off the barren land dried their lips and burned their ears, Dina was always fresh and lovely.

  She was beautiful.

  Gabe wondered that he’d never seen it before. Oh, he’d known she was pretty. He’d watched Nacio make a fool of himself over her, he’d seen a dozen or more wounded soldi
ers fall in love with her, but he’d never seen her.

  “Lie down,” she said as if he was nothing more than another patient to be healed and sent on their way.

  And maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he would fall in love with her, too.

  “Relax. Close your eyes. This won’t hurt.”

  It didn’t. It was soothing and peaceful. Her fingers touched him lightly, her magic a warm blessing curling through him. Gabe let go and allowed himself to be released from the pain.

  When he woke, Dina was still with him. She sat on a chair, close but not as close as she would have if he were a soldier in their hospital.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  “Better.” The pain was gone, only a lingering tightness in his jaw where the new skin had grown, a subtle ache in his teeth. He levered himself up, running his hands through his hair. “How long was I out?”

  “About an hour.”

  Swallowing his guilt, he asked, “Any more executions?”

  “No. The general came in just after I finished. He said there would be no more executions, so long as you recovered.” She leaned forward, worried frown pinching her brow. “Why did he say that?”

  He shook his head, not ready to think about the consequences of what he’d promised. Not ready to have Dina’s loyalty be his next victim. Instead, he touched the healed burn, poking the new skin, testing for any deeper damage she might have missed.

  “Is it all right?” she asked.

  “It’s good.” He gave her a tight smile. “Better than good. You should have been a mage.”

  “I’m not strong enough.”

  Working his jaw to relieve the tightness, he said, “If only they could implant bone magic like the others. You would have made a better Bone Mage than I ever have. Maybe they should test you again. Perhaps using your magic as much as you have here has strengthened it.”

  “No.” It came a little too hard and Dina ducked her head. “I don’t want to be tested again. I’m happy as a Sacerdio.”

 

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