The Bone Maker

by Sarah Beth Durst

  They didn’t speak until they reached Zera’s palace.

  Inside, Kreya crossed to the fountain and stared at the water while Zera dismissed her followers, shooing them away as if they were gnats. When it was only the five of them left, Stran slammed his fist into one of the skeleton-shaped marble pillars. Unfueled by a talisman, he only chipped it.

  His wife rushed in at the sound. “What happened? Is he sending heroes? An army?”

  Kreya didn’t respond.

  “Did he not believe you?”

  She didn’t listen while Stran explained in low, tight tones. She heard Amurra cry out in shock and disbelief. Kreya felt numb. But that was good—she could think instead of feel.

  “Insanity,” Zera said. “That’s what it is. Batshit crazy. It has to be blackmail. Or a threat of some kind. Eklor has something on Grand Master Lorn.”

  Kreya heard Zera pace back and forth behind her, her silk robes swishing over the floor. The others threw out wilder and wilder explanations: Eklor was threatening the city, Eklor was threatening Grand Master Lorn, Eklor was bribing him, Eklor was poisoning him, Eklor was controlling him, Lorn had been replaced by a mechanized construct made by Eklor who only looked like a human, which of course wasn’t possible, but Eklor was a genius so who knew what he could achieve . . .

  Only when they finished did Kreya turn to face her friends.

  All of them were looking at her expectantly. Certain she’d have a plan. Certain she’d at least have an explanation. But she had neither. Just a conviction that they needed one, quickly. “I assume we’re all in agreement? Eklor still plots to destroy the guild, taking all of Vos with it if it suits him. He doesn’t care about ‘forgiveness’ or a second chance.”

  Amurra ventured, “Perhaps he does? You said he showed a bone reading as proof. And that the guards on the wall saw the smoke from his fire.”

  “He watched while his creations sliced your husband open,” Kreya said bluntly. “He could have stopped them with a single word. He didn’t. He merely watched.”

  Blanching, Amurra touched Stran’s chest, near his mostly healed wound. It would scar, adding to his collection of many scars. “Perhaps he was afraid? You’d killed him once before. He could have felt he needed to defend himself.”

  They all stared at her.

  “What?” Amurra took a step backward. “I don’t forgive him. I’m only trying to understand why Grand Master Lorn, who is supposedly wise and clever, sees a change in him, despite this”—she waved at Stran’s torso—“evidence.”

  “Told you,” Zera said. “It’s blackmail or—”

  Kreya cut her off. “You’re right. He must have something on Lorn.” Yes, the bone reading was convincing, as was the fire on the plains, but even with all that, Grand Master Lorn had to have suspicions. This was Eklor, architect of the Bone War. You didn’t take his claims at face value, no matter what proof he produced.

  The others agreed. Jentt sat beside the fountain and rubbed his shoulder, the one that had been shot by an arrow. Kreya wondered how badly it was bothering him. He never complained about it. “It’s likely most people will follow the grand master’s lead,” Jentt said. “Unless his reputation has gone down since the last time I was here alive?”

  “He’s beloved,” Zera said. “And you’re right—the people will want to believe him. No one wants to believe their life is in danger and that one of their grandfatherly leaders has been misled. Or, worse, has betrayed them.”

  “It’s been twenty-five years,” Amurra ventured. “To most of us . . . to many, Eklor is a legend. You are all legends. There aren’t many who will believe the dangers of the past have anything to do with them and their lives. As you said, they want to believe it’s over.”

  “So how do we save a world that doesn’t want to be saved?” Jentt asked.

  She hadn’t planned to save the world again. She’d intended to come to Cerre and hand the responsibility to the next generation. No one would blame them if they did exactly that. After all, they’d only be following their guild master’s orders. They were the Five Heroes of Vos—they were supposed to obey the leaders of the city and behave in only virtuous, righteous ways—and they were supposed to be retired from the hero business anyway. But Kreya read determination on every one of their faces. This wasn’t over yet, for any of them. She’d never been more proud of her team. And she’d never been so grateful that they weren’t throwing everything she’d said back in her face. After all, she’d been the one who’d wanted to give up and dump the entire problem onto younger heroes’ laps. Looks like I was wrong, she thought. “We can start with me saying I’m sorry. I owe all of you an apology. You were right. We aren’t done with being heroes yet. It was a fool’s dream. Feel free to say ‘I told you so.’”

  “We’d never say that,” Zera said. “We’d think it. Loudly. Often. But we wouldn’t say it.” Jentt grinned at her, and the others nodded in agreement.

  Stran punched one fist into the palm of his other hand. “What’s the plan, Commander?”

  She smiled at her team, grateful for everything they weren’t saying. She’d made so many mistakes, and they still trusted her. To work then, she thought. “Before we can make any kind of reasonable plan, we need two pieces of information: One, what does Eklor have on Lorn? And two, where is Eklor’s army?”

  “You . . . want me to read for it?” Marso asked, his voice quivering. “You want me to counter Eklor’s reading in front of the guild master?”

  Kreya shook her head. “Thank you, but no.” She saw relief in his eyes. “Grand Master Lorn has already discredited you. Claimed your false readings drove you mad. That rules you out as an effective witness.”

  Zera patted him on the shoulder. “Yeah, it would be your reading versus Eklor’s, and while he has a history of genocide, you have a history of sleeping naked in city fountains.”

  “We need tangible proof,” Kreya said. “Only then will we have a chance of convincing Grand Master Lorn to withdraw his protection.”

  Stran volunteered. “Send me to find his army.”

  Amurra yelped. “Stran!”

  He wrapped his arm around her. “I won’t engage. Only scout.”

  Kreya glanced at Jentt, who nodded. “Fine. Jentt will accompany you. Take the direct route to the plains, not through the valley. There’s no need for secrecy. Both Lorn and Eklor will expect us to check for the truth. More than that, they’ll want us to. Send word to Lorn that you require official permission to cross into the forbidden zone, and go as soon as he grants it. Make your search thorough. And be alert—we don’t know where on the plains Eklor stashed his army or what he intends them to do.”

  Jentt promised Amurra, “I will speed us out if there’s a whiff of danger.”

  “If—or should I say when—you find evidence, make sure you have as many witnesses as possible,” Kreya said. “I don’t buy for a moment that Eklor could have, or would have, destroyed his army. He’ll have his soldiers hidden somewhere underground, ready to erupt out when he needs them. As soon as you find proof that his monstrosities still exist, expose the truth to the border guards and then bring whatever evidence you can back to Cerre.” She turned to the others. “Amurra—”

  Stran jumped in. “My wife is not part of this.”

  “She’s part of Vos,” Kreya said. “She’s as much a part of this as anyone, and she has a strength that none of us do: she’s unknown here. She can go where she wants, talk to who she wants, and learn information that none of the rest of us can. Amurra, I need you to find out what the people know and what they believe. If it comes to it, we need to know if the people will side with us or with Lorn. And we’ll pray it doesn’t come to that.”

  Stiffening her shoulders, Amurra said, “I can do that.”

  “Zera, you need to unearth what Eklor has over Lorn. Poke all your contacts. Call in favors, if you’re owed them. Bribe people, if you aren’t. We need to know, and we need to know fast, before Eklor makes his next move. Right now,
he has the advantage.”

  Zera smiled, but there was no humor in her eyes. “I’ll shake the trees so hard, people will be telling me their grandmother’s secrets.”

  “And you?” Jentt asked Kreya. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to distract Eklor from all of you.” She did not meet Jentt’s eyes as she said it. She knew he wasn’t going to approve of this part of her plan. “He wants forgiveness? He can begin by facing me.”

  She was right: Jentt didn’t like that idea. None of them did. All of them began talking at once, arguing with her. “You can’t attack him,” Stran said, louder than the rest. The others echoed him.

  “I’ll only talk.”

  None of them believed her.

  Kreya held up her hands, silencing them. “He’ll want to talk to me.” She hesitated for a moment. She wasn’t sure how they’d react to the reason for that, but she plunged on. They deserved to know. “He’ll want to know how I brought Jentt back. Eklor has always believed he’s the smartest in the world, but his research into resurrection was flawed and incomplete. It must be eating him up to know I achieved mastery of what he considered his life’s work. And it will hurt him even more when he learns I used his own notes to do it.” According to his notes, Eklor had never brought back the dead, at least prior to bringing himself back to life. He’d merely theorized it. She’d both completed his studies and applied them. He had to be curious about how.

  There was a silence.

  Marso, who had been silent, spoke up. “That’s how you did it? Using his knowledge? Did we know that?”

  “We strongly suspected,” Zera told him. “We weren’t asking questions because we didn’t want to know. It was enough that we had Jentt back. And me.” Her eyes rested on Kreya’s hand, the one with one less finger.

  All of them fell silent, looking at her hand.

  “Either condemn me for it, or let’s get to work.” Kreya held her breath but tried to keep her face placid and confident. She resisted the urge to also look down at her hand. If they turned on her for what she’d done to save Jentt and Zera, then so be it. I don’t regret it. Even now. Even with Eklor here, in the heart of Cerre.

  Jentt addressed Marso. “Are you well enough to go with Kreya?”

  “I . . . don’t know if I can read the bones like I used to,” Marso stammered.

  Kreya had deliberately not given him any tasks. She’d wanted him to focus on recovering. She’d ripped him out of his stupor and forced him to face things she knew he hadn’t wanted to face. Asking more of him now felt cruel, but Jentt didn’t hesitate.

  “You don’t have to read any bones,” Jentt told him. “You just need to accompany her when she faces Eklor again. She’ll want to make sure you aren’t killed, so that means if you’re there, she’ll be careful.”

  Kreya smiled. Clever man. He knew her well. “Everyone happy with the plan?”

  “I’m not happy about any of this,” Zera said.

  Kreya one hundred percent agreed with that, as did they all. But they set about doing it anyway.

  Because that’s what heroes did.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Marso retreated to the room that Zera had designated for him, while the others packed and prepared and plotted. He sank cross-legged in the center, on top of a plush bear-skin rug. He sank his fingers into the fur and concentrated on breathing evenly and smoothly.

  He should have seen this.

  If he’d been himself, at his old strength, he would have read the bones and known to expect Eklor in that palace. They’d have been able to be prepared. Instead, he’d failed them.

  It had been kind of them not to point it out. He’d forgotten that people could be so kind. After the war, it seemed the entire world had expectations for what he could do, what he must feel, what he’d think and want. Keeping up with them had been exhausting—and impossible.

  Concentrating on breathing, Marso tried to pull his mind out of the swirl of memories. There had been one lover he’d had who wanted him to use his powers as a parlor trick. All low stakes, so Marso hadn’t seen the harm: what will such-and-such restaurant offer for dinner, what will a friend wear to the night’s party, which runner will win the sprint. It was only when Marso realized that the young man was using the predictions to gamble that Marso broke it off. His next lover had been fascinated by his gift, but she hadn’t pushed him to use it. He ended it because he read her death in the bones and couldn’t bear to tell her. He’d tried once, but she’d stopped him. She hadn’t wanted to know what the cryptic images in the mist had meant, and he couldn’t live with both her and the knowledge. He’d tried once more, with a beautiful man who wasn’t afraid of what Marso might see. It was with him, though, that Marso had first widened his gaze to read the plains and seen a glimpse of Eklor alive.

  That time, the man broke it off with Marso.

  I have failed so many, Marso thought.

  He didn’t know whether it was the endless failure or the never-ending fear that had driven him to the fountain. His memories of that time were fogged, and he didn’t care to stare too closely at them.

  He was not there anymore. He was here. And his mind was clearer than it had been in a long, long time. And though Kreya had not given him anything to do—and he had said he couldn’t do it—he felt the need to cast.

  Perhaps it was seeing Eklor read the bones. It was disturbing to think that someone like that, a vector for destruction, should be gifted with the ability to summon the mist, while Marso, who had dedicated his life to the truth the bones could reveal, failed.

  Reaching into a pocket, Marso drew out a handful of old chicken bones. They’d been polished smooth years ago and felt light and familiar in his hands. Even at his worst, he hadn’t been able to part with them. He spun them around, manipulating them with his fingers, twisting them over and under his knuckles until he was juggling them one-handed.

  Marso had lost the knack of clearing his mind. It was a jumble of thoughts, fears, worries, and memories, but if he could quiet it for just a moment . . . He focused on building up a picture of the plains in his mind, not as they used to be but as they were in the present, with tall grasses, wildflowers, and the rubble of the tower. If he could predict what waited for Jentt and Stran, that would be a help.

  Bringing the bones to his lips, he whispered, “Prynato.”

  He spilled them onto the floor.

  Leaning over them, he let his eyes absorb the pattern as mist rose above them. Images began to appear both in the mist and in his mind. Earth, erupting upward. Machines, clawing their way out of the ground. Jentt, young, being hit by arrows—no, Jentt now, being hit in the shoulder by an arrow, which he had been, but he’d lived. He’s alive, Marso told his mind.

  A dead soldier lurched to its feet.

  Another old memory. He tried to cling to that fact, to separate past, present, and future, but the images assailed him. He heard screaming, and he clapped his hands over his ears. But it didn’t fade. The screaming was within him, echoing through his veins. He saw soldiers—innocent men and women who only wanted to defend their homes and their families—torn apart by Eklor’s army. He saw the grass trampled, steeped in blood. Then he heard the silence, the wind, the wails, all at once, and the plains were both empty and full.

  Stop!

  He tried to pull his mind back, and he was in Cerre, hovering above it like a hawk. Below, the city burned. Blackened bodies lay in the streets.

  Future? Past? Imagination?

  He didn’t know.

  When the images fled and the mist melted away, he wept.

  “Question is: at what point do I quit being civil?” Pacing back and forth across one of Zera’s lesser and more private salons, Kreya seemed to be talking more to herself than to Zera, so Zera didn’t answer.

  I don’t know what the answer should be anyway, Zera thought. “No luck getting an audience with him?” she asked out loud. She knew Kreya had sent her initial request hours ago, with a follow-u
p each hour after. Zera too had sent out feelers to her contacts, paving the way to pry for information about the grand master. Both of them were waiting, though Zera privately thought she was being much more patient about it.

  “Normally I’d insist, but that could be seen as an act of aggression,” Kreya said, before punching a pillow on a divan. “So I am politely and patiently waiting for my request to be honored. But there has to be a limit.”

  With a clenched jaw, Kreya looked as if she wanted to bite someone, and Zera spent an enjoyable minute imagining her friend biting the crap out of Eklor. Obviously harsher punishments would follow, but that would make a delightful appetizer. Zera opened her mouth to suggest she consider it, and she heard a tentative clearing of a female throat.

  “Not hungry, not thirsty, go away!” Kreya called. “Honestly, your servants think if I don’t try a ‘nibble’ every thirty minutes, I’ll starve to death. How many meals a day do you eat?”

  “None and all,” Zera said airily.

  A soft voice carried through the curtained archway. “It’s Amurra. I thought—”

  Zera swung her legs off the couch. “Oh, goodness, girl, come in!” She crossed to the curtain and shooed her inside. “You’re always welcome, love.”

  Amurra scooted inside. She was dressed in some of Zera’s clothes, since her farmwear wasn’t appropriate in the city, and she tugged at the blouse, trying to force it to cover the skin it bared. Zera thought she’d feel more confident if she added a few tattoos, but she wasn’t going to mention it. She herself had a lovely golden lizard skeleton inked on her left ankle. She’d gotten it at a time when she hadn’t felt as comfortable in her own skin. Getting it had felt like hanging a painting in a new house, claiming it as hers. She spent a pleasant few seconds imagining what kind of tattoo would look best on Amurra, as if Amurra were a blank canvas and she a painter. Perhaps an apple tree, in blossom.